Hope you enjoy. This will be another rather long story, it seems to be leading my imagination a merry dance. Beta by the wonderful, and patient, Theresa Green.

Rose

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Legolas and Gimli go on a quest chasing a dream. Old truths are revealed and discord in part of the song of Illứvatar mended.

Chapter 1

Alone, deep underground, Gimli sat down in the multi-hued dark and inhaled the sweet breath of Thrihyrne. He let his thoughts calm, in tune with the quiet singing of crystal, the murmur of granite. Occasionally a drop of water plinked, the returning echoes defining the cave’s dimensions.

A purely dwarven skill, he mused. Legolas had heard nothing but water in this space; saw only the reflection of torchlight. The deep had diminished the elf, even as it enlarged Gimli.

Another drop fell - after a space, another. Gimli let the panic recede, let it ebb away in the ancient rhythm of Aglarond.

Finally he let himself think of the interview he had just endured with the healer, Frior. Gimli had listened, allowing the necessary poking and prodding. He sat impassively as Frior spoke earnestly of the care he was to take; of the restrictions he must place on his activity, his diet, his responsibilities.

On the tide of the healer’s words Gimli felt that he was slipping away. 

When he gathered himself enough to press for reasons, Frior reminded him of the trauma he had suffered at the hands of the cave troll, nearly a dozen years ago. Frior reminded him, unkindly in Gimli’s opinion, of the series of head injuries that misfortune and war dealt him over the space of a year, a decade ago, the weakness in his wind that had dogged him since his near drowning. The healer insisted that all those events had taken a toll on his heart. The healer reminded him of the flux last winter, of how it sat on his lungs longer than most. Of the cough that dogged him still when he worked, as a leader should, alongside his people. Of Gimli’s recent inability to tolerate large meals and plenty of ale without suffering from indigestion severe enough to drive him to Frior’s clinic for relief. Of the chest pain that had alerted the healer to Gimli’s distress when Frior had chanced upon his lord, pale and gasping at the top of the flight of stairs Gimli was in the habit of taking two at a time.

Frior had poked a finger into the puffy skin around Gimli’s ankles, and then told him that his heart was failing.

In the kindly dark under the mountain Gimli raised his right hand and rested it in the middle of his breast, under the warmth of his beard. After a moment, in the vast silence that cradled him, he could feel his heart, beating as ever, measuring the thread of his life. It seemed as reliable as the living stone around him, and as enduring. But Frior had spoken of damage, of hard old arteries and starved muscles, of the burden of leadership and the stress of work.

Ice slid over his spirit.

This was no fate he would have chosen. Despite these years of peace and plenty always he had seen himself as a warrior; still he expected a warrior’s end. Not a creeping loss, a taking away of all that made him worthy, his skill in metalwork, his strength of arms, his endurance

Gimli shut his eyes; the unchanging beauty of Aglarond mocked his mortality.

In the darkness behind his eyelids his imagination showed him a future full of increasing dependency, the burden he would pose to his people, the pity and disgust he would see in the eyes of those he had once led.

Then, unbidden, Legolas’ changeless face filled his inner eye. The elf’s spirit was still strong, despite the endless draw of the sea. Legolas desired to stay with those he loved in Middle-earth, so he refused his need to sail to the West with stubbornness Gimli found entirely admirable.

Gimli opened his eyes again and looked at the uncaring stone. Thoughts of his friend warmed him.

 Gimli fingered the medicine Frior had pressed on him at the end of the consultation. The poor old healer had looked as distraught as Gimli felt – Gimli remembered his insistence. His lord must take the concoction at least thrice daily. Gimli prised out the cork and swallowed the inevitably bitter draught.

After a another space of time Gimli levered himself to his feet and set off at his usual determined pace, back up to the warmth and light of his colony’s upper levels. If Frior’s medicine acted as he said it would the slope would give him no trouble.

Gimli decided he had better visit Aragorn. Frior was all right with bones, but Aragorn was the man for hearts. Might as well go see the elf as well.

Gimli stumped along grimly, reluctantly tempering his speed to the tightness in his chest and neck.

Perhaps he would visit Legolas first. The elf sometimes had good ideas, and the woods would be peaceful. Please old Frior by taking a holiday, Gliver would manage; good dwarf that one.

Gimli paused at the bottom of the last flight of stairs and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

Soon, Gimli my boy - he made a mental note to himself - as soon as possible.

ooooo

The fire blazed merrily, and, as the evening drew to a close, Telfaren and Gimli strove to outdo each other by swapping increasingly more florid traveller’s tales.

Gleowyn pretended to ignore them both, as she finessed finishing touches on a new latch design, but they were outrageous in their boasting and merry with good company.

Gimli waved the knot of wood he was whittling at Telfaren.

“…So you see laddie, the elf had no time to get out of the way. Up to his neck he was, and I laughed most heartily, until he climbed out. Then I ran!”

Both of them laughed and even Gleowyn smiled at the mischief in the old dwarf’s voice.

Behind her a cool draft announced the opening of the door. Gleowyn glanced round to see her middle daughter, eight-year-old Aelyn, creeping into the room, all dishevelled curls. The child slid along the wall and paused with her finger in her mouth, eyes the size of doorknobs at the adult hilarity.

“Aelyn?” said Gleowyn. It was unlike the child to disturb them after bedtime. In sooth she looked as if she had been sleeping and had woken. Still, she knew better than to come down so late of an evening.

The men fell silent as they realised the child was in the room and Aelyn looked searchingly at Gimli, then pulled her finger from her mouth long enough to announce.

“Brytta’s crying, mother.”

Gleowyn and Telfaren sighed simultaneously, and then Gleowyn pushed herself back from her worktable and made for the door, scooping up Aelyn on the way.

“Will you excuse me, Lord Gimli?”

Gimli waved a dismissing hand at Gleowyn and then looked polite enquiry at the child’s father when she had gone.

Telfaren shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Ever since Bardor died so suddenly last month he has bad dreams. He loved his Grandda something fierce. Bardor; rest him, used to call the lad his apprentice. We all miss him, truly, it is hard to believe such a hearty man could go, it seemed he would outlast us all.”

Telfaren looked into the flames. “Brytta was with him when he dropped.” Telfaren’s shoulders sagged a little. “Gleowyn feels that he blames himself somehow.” Telfaren sighed again. “Children - we do our best to shelter them but life finds them anyway.”

Silence seemed the only reply that was respectful so Gimli bent to his carving again, missing his pipe with a passion that surprised him.

‘Damn the fates, and life in general,’ he thought, not for the first time.

oooo

Gleowyn popped Aelyn back into the bed she shared with her little sister, and then slipped into Brytta’s room.

A strained silence greeted her from the pile of blankets in the middle of his bed. Then an involuntary hiccupping sob shook the boy again, causing the shape to hunch even tighter.

Gleowyn sat on the side of the bed and patted gently on the part of the lump she presumed was Brytta’s back.

Eventually a skinny arm snaked out of the covers and grabbed her hand, followed shortly after by a rearranging of the covers so that a woebegone face could be seen on the pillow.

“Tell me,” said Gleowyn.

“Lord Gimli is going to die. Just like Grandda.”

Gleowyn blinked. That was unexpected.

“Well he is very old, Brytta. But I don’t think he is going to die soon.”

Brytta looked at her, then turned so he could see the moon sailing the sky outside his window.

“He is.” The boy’s chin trembled and he bit his lip to stop it.

Gleowyn was mystified.

 “He looks well enough, Brytta. He’s a bit thin, but he seems hale. He told us he had that dreadful flux that took so many folk this winter. Did he say something to you when you were playing this afternoon that scared you so?”

Brytta’s glare would have cut wood.

“We were not playing, mother. We were sparring. And he would not say something to scare me he is too honourable. He even picked up little Glynnie to get her away from the axes, and then kissed her hand as if she was a lady, though her nose was runny and she had been playing in the chicken coop, again. It was later, after we finished sparring. He had to sit down so he sent me off with the weapons, and while I was doing that I saw him drink some of that awful medicine that killed Grandda.” Brytta’s chin got the wobbles again and the boy looked at the ceiling struggling for a second before he could continue. “I will never forget the smell of the stuff. It was the same.”

Brytta looked down then, his thick black lashes veiling his eyes. “He didn’t know that I was watching through the trellis, and I ran away before he could see me again.” A fat tear slid. “Why would he take the stuff that killed Grandda, Mother?”

Gleowyn thought quickly, trying to curb her dismay that her father had kept the secret of his illness from her.

“What did Grandda say to you about the medicine, Brytta?”

“He told me it would keep his heart strong. But it didn’t, and I couldn’t get it to him in time when he fell. The stupid glass tube broke and it took me too long to get the other one from his room. And he died.”

Gleowyn gathered the sobbing boy in her lap and rocked his distress in her arms, blinking back her own betrayal. Her father had known he was sick and had kept it from her? She had thought she had known his every wish. It hurt.

“We cannot know the time of our going, son. Grandda’s death was not your fault. The gods called and he went. But lord Gimli is not Grandda, Brytta. Our friend Gimli is dwarf kind, and not young by any reckoning, and we are not healers to know what the same herb does for one kin or another. He is off to see his elf-friend and the great King Aragorn himself. They will look after him. And he will be back sparring with you in a season or two, just you see.”

Brytta cuddled closer into her lap, and before long was overcome by sleep. But Gleowyn stayed awake long into the night, and later went down to the parlour to rekindle a candle from a spark on the hearth.

Telfaren was abed and lord Gimli long retired to his lodgings, and for that Gleowyn was grateful.

Long was the letter she wrote to her friend, Legolas Greenleaf, lord of Ithilien, and long was the elf-lord’s questioning of the messenger, Telfaren, who had the misfortune to carry it. But Gleowyn was not having another life blighted by the misplaced pride of a loved one. She worried greatly because Gimli was planning to travel alone across the plains, as was his unbreakable habit, and who should bring his medicine should misfortune break a glass vial?

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Legolas and Gimli go on a quest chasing a dream. Old truths are revealed and discord in part of the song of Ilứvatar mended.

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

Chapter 2

To his intense annoyance it took Gimli seven days to reach the far side of Firien Wood and the borders of Gondor, on foot, on the perfectly good road from Edoras. The two extra days it took to get that far were entirely due to his inability to keep up what he would consider a reasonable pace.

He felt shackled by the now predictable tightness in his chest. A tightness that yielded neither to anger nor to stubborn persistence, but only to a regime of planned rests. He felt shamed, almost to tears, by his debility and avoided all but the most cursory contact with the various caravans and groups of fellow travellers that now seemed to throng the highway.

They in their turn were only too happy to give the irascible dwarf a wide berth. The war-axe he carried on his back looked quite sharp and well used, and he bristled like a cat in a thunderstorm when bothered by cheery hails, or offers of a lift on a wain or cart.

If things had been different Gimli would have left the road completely and made his way via the hills, but some spark of common sense warned him that that course of action would not only delay him but also could be the end of him. He wanted to live to see Aragorn, and get him to fix this ridiculous illness.

 He did bend enough to leave most of his heaviest armour and his helmet at a roadhouse. He left gold with the hostler to pay for the pack’s delivery back to Aglarond. No matter if it all went astray, it was high summer and the heat was bothering him. The man had seemed honest enough, even if his Goodwife wanted to fuss over Gimli, delaying his departure this morning.

“You look a might peaky, my lord, for a dwarf that is. Will you not bide another day, sir?” Her honest red face looked all puckered.

Gimli straightened up, suddenly aware of the fact that he had been leaning on the wall after the exertion of bundling up his spare gear and sorting out his new pack.

“Nay, Mistress. I will press on.” He looked up at the woman who was twisting her white apron into a knot. “Thank you for your kindness, I have friends in the city and I am anxious to meet them.”

The woman peered into his face again, and then shook her head. “ Well, you take care, sir. That is all I will say. Take care.”

Gimli lifted a careless hand in farewell and strode off down the dawn road, trying to look sturdy for her. He slowed as soon as he was out of her sight and set a more achievable pace.

“Aulë, lord of my people, this is really no way for a dwarf to live,” he complained. “You made the dwarves strong and resilient, but this one appears faulty.” He leaned forward to ease his chest and grumbled to the uncaring road, at the top of a rise. The plains of Gondor sparkled in the distance. “In my strength I could serve my people. What use can I be to anyone like this?”

 The stones of the road disdained to answer, so after a short rest he shouldered his pack again and ventured out of the sunlight down the hill.

Now it was noon and he turned off the road into the oaks, wandering a little distance into the trees to seek out a glade with a stream. His chest told him he would not be travelling further this day; he had no chance of reaching the next roadhouse before his stamina gave out.

As if mocking his fatigue the forest seemed full of life and vigour; birds flitted between the boughs, he could hear squirrels chattering and playing in the canopy and even the little stream danced energetically down a miniature rock wall before lazing through the grassy glade. The tumble of rocks was an outthrust finger of the granite range Gimli had been flanking for days. He took enormous comfort from the solidity of a sun-warmed boulder to put his back to.

He assembled a small fire and drank some tea, and then he picked, without appetite, at the heel of bread and pickled ham the Goodwife had insisted he carry for his lunch. After a while he sighed and wrapped the food again. Even his appetite seemed to have deserted him. Rubbing his stomach to settle its bile he sat leaning against the boulder, wrapped in the comfort of the latest elven cloak Legolas had gifted him. He glanced around the clearing once more, his pack was beside him, his axe was under his hand and the cloak would hide him from the curious. He let his eyes slide shut, trusting perforce to the King’s peace. He hoped for dreams of his youth - this present was not to his taste.

The place he dreamed was no haunt of his youth.

“Gimli son of Gloin!” The roar spun him in a circle and he found himself facing a being whose majesty and presence dropped Gimli to his knees in instinctive homage.

“After the gifts heaped upon you, how is it I hear your complaints, Gloin’s son?”

Gimli felt himself redden in embarrassment. He had displeased this regal presence? “

“My lord?” he faltered, trying without success to place this magnificent cavern. He glanced around in confusion.

The white-marble floor glinted with golden lights; the walls were carved in intricate runes. Then his downcast gaze caught on his beard and he was stunned to see it was the rich russet it had been in his prime. He stretched out his hands, instead of gnarled digits, strong fingers flexed at his command. Forgetting his awe he sprang to his feet in one fluid movement.

“I am myself!” His heart swelled with surpassing joy. Delighted he boldly looked up at the being in front of him, almost singing in his relief. “I am restored.”

Eyes of infinite compassion looked back at him.

Gimli suddenly sobered. Breathed, and then straightened his back and squared his shoulders.

“Is this death then, my lord?”

The Vala smiled at him. “Ai, Gimli. Ever you have been my favourite.”

“Legolas,” came the sudden thought. “I had no chance to say farewell.” Panic welled in his heart. “The fool elf will grieve.”

Aulë stepped forward and placed a hand of surprising weight on Gimli’s shoulder. The Vala breathed into Gimli’s wondering face and the fear floated to some other place.

“My son, I have a rather large favour to ask of you…”

oooo

“Gimli.” A voice, rough with anxiety, was calling his name. “Gimli, wake! Please my friend.” A hand shook his shoulder.

With a groan, Gimli prised open eyes that seemed to have been shut for a lifetime.

He blinked at Legolas. The wood-elf looked strained, as if every nerve was on edge. The elf scanned the clearing and then turned his wide blue gaze back on his friend. Gimli was shocked to see tears well in Legolas’ eyes when the elf realised that he was stirring.

Gimli pushed himself more upright. Forgetting, for the instant, to wonder where his friend had sprung from, he scanned the clearing himself. It was the very image of bucolic peace, dappled in the afternoon sun. Legolas’ favourite mount, Ascallon cropped the lush grass near the stream.

“Lad, what ails thee?” The dwarf dropped his own hand to his axe, reflexively looking around for enemies. “Are we beset?”

Legolas took a breath, and then impulsively drew Gimli into a shoulder-crushing embrace. “You live. The Valar be praised, Gimli. You live.”

Gimli tried to pummel his brain into coherence. “Lad. Legolas, it lightens my heart to see you too, but why should I not live?”

Legolas released his friend  and crouched back on his heels, wrapping his arms around his torso in unconscious self-comfort.

“Something strange has happened here. Gimli, can you not feel it? The very air hums. Gimli…” The elf rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to rub clarity into his head. “I was riding to meet you on the road, and starting to fear that I had somehow overshot, when I was led into the forest, off the road, yonder.” He waved vaguely behind him. “A light, like sunlight on a mirror, blinked and beckoned from the trees, Ascallon wanted to follow and I was compelled.”

He looked all around the clearing again, Gimli shifted so he could follow the elf’s gaze. The wood remained the wood, to his dull senses.

Legolas continued. “We came at last to this glade, and then the light flared so that I threw up my hand to shade my eyes, and then I saw you.” The elf turned his head and swallowed. “I swear you looked as if your life had fled, Gimli. No breath stirred your beard.” The elf blinked tears again and fixed his gaze on the silver beard in question. “I remember not how I dismounted and came to your side, but my soul was riven. And then the air seemed charged, like festival wine, and you breathed where you had breathed not.” The elf turned eyes huge with confusion onto his friend. “You breathed, Gimli, and woke to my urgent call.” The elf shook his head again.

Gimli stared at the elf, shaken to his core. The dream he had experienced suddenly blazed like a tapestry in his mind.

Trembling slightly he stretched out a hand and placed it on the elf’s forearm.

“But I am well enough, Legolas, and not dead yet, it seems. Come, let us stir up the fire and make ourselves tea. I had the strangest dream, my friend. Since you are with me unlooked for, perhaps it was more than a dream.”

He pushed up away from the rock to stand up, and was surprised again. The movement was easy. He took a step or two towards the fire and then stopped, trying to take an internal inventory. His hand rose by its own violation and rested on his chest.

Legolas was at his side on an instant. “Gimli? What is it?”

The dwarf looked up at his bewildered and worried friend. “A gift, perhaps, Legolas.”

Gimli reached for his pack and rummaged rather more energetically for his pouch of tea. An involuntary smile curved his lips. “I need to visit the healers of Minas Tirith, Legolas. Could you and yonder beast be prevailed on to give me a lift?”

Legolas eyed his friend, and then laughed merrily, his spirit lightening in tune with the feel of the delighted forest. “A first, and no other present to witness, the dwarf requests a ride. Aragorn will not believe me.” The elf peered again into the face of his old friend. “What would you have of the healers, Gimli? Was Gleowyn right to summon me so urgently to your side?”

Gimli snorted, amused at the identity of his betrayer. “Probably Legolas, I may have proved myself an old fool, once again.” He raised brown eyes dancing with a secret joy to the elf’s. “But we have a great riddle to unravel, should my state of  health prove to be less dire than it has been of late. Let me tell you of my dream.”

TBC

Rose Sared

 I hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am. All reviews welcomed with delight, hoarded and replied to.

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Legolas and Gimli go on a quest chasing a dream. Old truths are revealed and discord in part of the song of Ilứvatar mended.

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

With apologies for the long break, blame the Vor saga. Yes, it’s all LMB’s fault. Heh. Rather more honestly, I have proved to myself, yet again, that an idea is not a plot, bother it, and it has taken all this time for the plot to reveal itself.

Chapter 3

In an obscure basement of Aragorn’s great library Gimli balanced one last, crisp-edged, scroll on top of the weighty pile of books he already clutched to his chest, and then turned, gingerly, to make his way back to the lamp-lit sanctuary he had created. The faint illumination cast by the light-wells had faded to true dark, oh - books and books ago. The golden glow from the oil lamps now cast shadows from the several ramparts of discarded volumes he had stacked to the side during the three days he had been pursuing his search.

Who could have guessed that the second age of the elves would have inspired so many clerks and bards to spew genealogies and fantasies in almost equal measure? The military histories on the other hand, they were fascinating. His quarry was almost alive to him now, even though the elf lord, Celebrimbor, had been slain more than four and a half thousand years ago. Celebrimbor’s friend Narvi, though of dwarven-kind, would not even be bones, no matter her honour; from dust to dust she would have returned. What could his dream have meant after all? As that great space of time ran its daily course from the second age to the fourth, rivers rose, mountains fell; great kingdoms of men had been established, risen to power and fallen into forgetful ruin.

Gimli felt the stack of books in his arms shifting precariously and so lurched the last steps to the table allowing the pile to land with a thud and an unfortunate cloud of dusk. He sneezed, and the library swam in his involuntary tears. Lord Elrond had lived through it all, he realised, as he looked at the scroll that now unwound in crinkled arcs to reveal a map of Imladris. No wonder the lord of Rivendell had sailed at last, to have lived so long. Gimli squeezed his eyes shut, trying to subdue his nose. How did the elves perceive time?

Gimli let out another irresistible sneeze, blowing himself backwards into the padded arms of the chair he had purloined from the entrance hall, a little comfort for his elderly bones. When he blinked his eyes clear this time it was to see his own personal elf materialised like a genie out of the dark on the other side of the table.

Legolas looked perturbed.

“Are you sure you are well, my friend?”

Not waiting for an answer the elf piled a thick blue book on top of two brown gilt-edged tomes, perched one of the lamps on the top of his tower, and in the resulting clearance lay down a bowl containing a loaf of bread, a large wedge of cheese and several russet apples. From a strap over his shoulder he swung down a leather sack that sloshed suggestively.

“Did the librarian see you bringing that in here?” Gimli peered into the shadowed dark. “He was quite fierce about me not eating amongst his books.”

The repositioned lamp caught gold highlights in the elf’s fair hair, and lit the flash of his eyes as he glared at his friend.

“So you eat not, rather than stop. I cannot believe that is good for you, my friend. Even great dwarves need to eat, or so you have always lead me to believe. Or is this need another that has been waived by the grace that visited you in Firien Wood?”

Gimli’s stomach rumbled its denial of any such dispensation. Gimli grinned at his friend and reached for an apple. It tasted miraculous.

Legolas hooked a spindle-legged stool closer to the table and perched on it. He magicked two goblets from somewhere about his person and applied himself to filling them from the wine skin.

“The librarian is in his bed, I warrant. As are most of the good citizens of the King’s city. Most mortals do not have the endurance of dwarves and elves, my friend, but I find my curiosity has driven my patience to its end. Will you please tell me what it is that you are looking for?”

Gimli snagged a goblet and took a long swallow. He eyed his friend from over the rim.

“If I knew, I would send one of Aragorn’s keen young scholars down here to find it for me. It was not clear.”

Legolas folded a lump of cheese into a hank of bread and handed it over to the dwarf. Gimli looked at it, and then back at the elf. He took a bite and washed it down with another swallow of wine.

The elf swallowed a mouthful himself.

“What have you found so far?”

Gimli waved at the piles of books and scrolls around him. “All I have done is confirm the history you and Aragorn gave me. Celebrimbor was slain in the year sixteen ninety-seven of the second age, as the years are calculated here in Gondor. He died defending his brother jewellers and his people in Hollin against the minions of Sauron. Of Narvi there is nothing more than her name.”

“Her name?” Legolas’ dark-pupilled eyes widened.

Gimli scowled at him. “Yes, her name. She was great amongst her people and honoured for her skill. Her name has been handed down the generations of my people even as Celembrimbor’s has been handed down yours. I may count her as an ancestor, many times removed.”

Legolas toasted his loyalty with a wave of his cup. “I think Celebrimbor may be my cousin, once or twice removed.” The elf took a drink. “And the mystery your vision bade you solve?”

“Pah!” said Gimli “I can add little to what I told you on our ride here. My Lord Aule, if in soothe it was he and not some addled dream of this senile old pate,” Gimli hit the side of his head. “My lord showed me a discord, a barren place which should be full of life, left my head ringing with the names of our illustrious ancestors and filled me with a desire to right a wrong that has been bothering our makers for two ages. Just before I woke I saw a ring, mithril bound in gold, with a great blue stone set like an eye in its band. The ring was on a finger that looked like stone, grey and weathered, but it was flesh. Naught else do I know, Legolas. I can find no mention of such a ring, it was no part of the nine, seven or three, but it was a masterwork. I am craftsman enough to know quality when I see it, vision or no.”

“Aragorn and his law-masters know nothing of this ring?”

Gimli shook his head, and waved a goblet-filled hand to encompass the archive. “After his healers had finished with me, Aragorn gave me the freedom of his vaults, but little good does it do me. The events are too far in the past.”

“Mayhap you are looking in the wrong place?” Legolas placed a gentle finger on the crumbling map of Rivendell. He raised an inquiring eyebrow to his friend.

Gimli finished his bread and cheese and then leaned into the circle of light, a look of revelation on his face. He picked up the scroll and rolled it up carefully, thinking.

 “Aye, Celeborn would have been living in Lorien when the refugees from Hollin escaped through Moria.” He mused out loud. “Surely he would be able to shed some light on this geas.” The dwarf looked suddenly more cheerful. “Ah, a journey Legolas, a trip to the Last Homely House.”

“Is this yet another request for a ride, Gimli?” Legolas did not look at his friend, finding something of interest in the set of a fingernail.

Gimli barked a short laugh. “Nay, my legs will do me, as they have done for most of my life. Have you no work in Ithilien that you would tag along with me?”

Legolas drew back, his face suddenly opaque. Gimli realised he had accidentally trodden on his friend’s elven pride. The dwarf leaned forward, his chocolate eyes bright under the silver thatch of his eyebrows.

“Now don’t start getting all ‘Son of Thranduil’ with me, laddie.”  Gimli held his stare until Legolas reluctantly met his eyes. “I would welcome your company, as you well know, but I am mindful of your people, who have tolerated much from me over the years. I may be away for a year or more.”

Legolas waved a hand airily. “One year, several. My people do not need me to manage them for such a short time. They are elves; they have managed themselves for millennia.”

Time again, thought Gimli. He finished his drink and handed the goblet back to his friend who had begun to pack up the evidence of their meal. He pushed back from the table and surveyed the disorder he had created in his research.

“Shall I attempt to put this all back, Legolas?” He scratched his head; it may yet take him three days more to re-shelve all the books.

Legolas came round the table and put a firm guiding hand in the middle of his back.

“Leave a note for the librarian, Gimli. What is the point of having humans if they don’t do chores?”

The lord of Ithilien arched an arrogant eyebrow at the lord of Aglarond, and laughing, Gimli allowed himself to be guided up and out, into the sleeping citadel.

00000

Earnulf consulted the crude map scratched by the master of horse again, twisting it in his hands to compare its scant directions to the chaotic stone labyrinth of the first ring of Minas Tirith.

“Dammit, Esgarth, think you the visitors’ barracks are down there?” He waved a muscled arm towards one of two alleyways and tugged at his straggly yellow moustache.

Esgarth peered at the parchment, squinting helpfully. His head only came to Earnulf’s shoulder and Earnulf was left looking at the thinning hair on his crown. The sergeant looked back up into his officer’s face

“Could be, Captain.” he said, helpfully.

Earnulf glanced back at his sullen éored. Away from their horses and the grasslands they had fallen silent and waited, bunched together. Feared and fearless on the plains of Rohan they were cowed by the stone city with its busy uncaring masses and uncanny geography.

No help there, thought Earnulf. He wished he had not been so quick to dismiss the guide sent by the gate garrison, but the lad had complained of missing his mess, and the men could not be hurried over the care of their horses. Who would have thought he could get lost finding the barracks?

Earnulf shifted his gaze back to the street. He had been made Captain because of his prowess in the field, now it was time to prove his ability off.

“This way.” He strode forward and managed to suppress his heartfelt sigh of gratitude as the barracks revealed itself around the next bend in the pavement.

Praise his master, King Elfwine, or his influence with the city gate guard, at least. Now he could house his men and hasten on by himself to his appointment in the citadel above. The King’s message pouch seemed to burn with its burden of responsibility in his chest. Or perhaps that was just his spirit that felt so trammelled by this city.

His men, all but one older than him, trooped past to take up their rooms, grinning at him now and ready for their ale.

Earnulf and Esgarth counted them in and Earnulf signed the necessary forms. At least the grateful messenger had warned the quartermaster of their coming, Earnulf presumed. Now his men could be comfortable and he could change into more fitting kit for presenting himself at the court of King Elessar.

As he changed in his room, Earnulf wondered if the King could possibly remember him, changed as he was from the young boy the elf lord had taken under his wing ten years ago.

Catching his hulking reflection in the polished bronze of his shield, the young man tugged at his moustache and snorted. He thought not, but felt his heart lift at this chance to see those noble legends again. If he was lucky, his lord Legolas may even be in attendance; he had seen Ithilien and Aglarond’s courtesy flags flying above the great mithril-bound gates as they had ridden in. What prowess in arms he had, he owed to the elf; it would be most fitting if he could show him how his teaching had allowed him to be promoted.

He thought of his sister Aethel, of how she would have loved to be in this great city. Ai, he would just have to remember the details, he suspected there would be a test when he finally got home.

Earnulf’s homely vision of his mother at her hearth and Aethel at her carding was rudely shattered by a peremptory knock on his door, quickly followed by the face and person of his Sergeant.

“Fancy guard from the citadel here for you, Sir. All done up in that black and silver and wouldn’t give his Mam the time of day.”

Earnulf sighed. “Thank you, Esgarth. I’ll be along directly.”

Earnulf turned to pick up his shield, tucked his well-shined, horsetail decorated, helmet under his arm and patted the pouch that held his King’s message, reassuring himself that it was still safe.

Esgarth held the door for him.

“You look fine, Captain.” The older man grinned up at his young officer. Earnulf blushed faintly at the praise; he saw no particular virtue in his physique.

Earnulf strode down towards the entrance and his guide. The sooner he started this errand the sooner finished and back where he belonged, on the wide grasslands of Rohan. Lightning blast that Ent anyway, why did it have to be his patrol that it had chosen to bother.

He saluted the citadel guard and indicated the door. The city man looked wide-eyed for a moment at this large and vital warrior, then pulled his composure around him and led the way outside.

“Follow me Captain. I am to deliver you to the steward himself.”

Earnulf tried hard not to feel like an unwanted package and trod faithfully on the man’s black clad heels, all the way up to the highest level of the city.

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

Chapter4

Aragorn leaned forward in his throne and caught his son’s eye. Eldarion, seated in the Steward’s seat on the bottom broad step, was making a brave attempt to smother his gathering amusement. Aragorn worried that he might so far forget his diplomatic training as to laugh out loud at the spectacle that the envoy was making of himself in his attempts to flatter his country’s powerful ally.

“High Lord, Beloved of the Sand-gods, Ruler of the West,” silk-clad arms rose with the envoy’s voice, in theatrical emphasis. “Terror of the Unworthy, Protector of the Weak, Father of the Nation.” Nekkussor’s sleeves fell back to his elbows as, stretching, he reached out as if to embrace the steps of the throne. Enamelled gold bangles clashed together as he brought his arms back together, palm-to-palm. He contorted into a deep bow; Aragorn wondered what kept the towering turban on his head. The winged crown of Gondor, balanced on his own head, seemed much more precarious

“My good Nekkussor,” murmured Aragorn. “You are too kind. Return, with our like sentiments, to your master.” He signalled to Eldarion as Nekkussor straightened up. “The treaties, Eldarion.”

Eldarion plucked the gold-banded parchments from the table in front of him and carried them up the stairs to his father, careful of the dangling seals. Aragorn beckoned the envoy up the stairs and then handed the viciously haggled-for trade treaties over with a silent ‘yes’ of satisfaction. The end of another hard bargaining round and not a blow struck in anger. The kingdom of Gondor would be the richer for the trade and its borders slightly safer, at least until the next band of ‘bandits’ started pirating Gondor’s caravans. Inwardly Aragorn sighed, and supposed the constant challenges kept his border guards sharp.

Eldarion escorted the envoy’s colourful party to the chamber door, and then turned and grinned at his father down the length of the council chamber.

“A good morning’s work, Father.”

The King nodded, smiling in agreement, and then stood, exhausted by the studied diplomacy as he had never been exhausted by long days in the open, tracking orcs.  He walked down the steps, eased off the crown, and then handed it and his white cloak to the heirlooms’ guards. Aragorn personally put the sceptre of Annûminas into its velvet lined case and saw it into the hands of its keeper. Aragorn’s bodyguard held out his more everyday tabard, embroidered with the stylised white tree, helped him into it, and then gently pointed his master at the anteroom where the noon meal had been laid ready. Aragorn wrinkled his nose slightly at the food and wandered over to the double doors that led to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. He stood in the sunlight, just breathing air that was not tainted by either exotic musk or intrigue. Eldarion joined him at the railing, handing him tea that steamed aromatically.

After far too short a space of peace, a disturbance turned both men’s attention indoors, the door guard’s challenge met by Legolas’ unmistakeable voice.

Eldarion saw his father’s grim face lighten and stepped forward to signal the guard and make sure Legolas was granted access. He worried about his father; a certain joy had left his face during the past few years, replaced by a strained weariness. Eldarion resolved to see if he could quietly shift some more of the tedious and boring aspects of rule from Aragorn’s broad shoulders onto his own. He would seek out Cirion after lunch.

Aragorn stepped inside the room again, blinking to accustom his eyes to the lower light. The elf caught sight of his friend and hailed him, towing a shrinking young man across the anteroom towards him. Gimli stumped along behind, grinning at his friend’s impetuosity.

“Aragorn. Look what we found out in the hallway. Hasn’t he grown?” Legolas tugged a blushing Captain of the Rohirrim into the King’s presence and then presented him to Aragorn as if he had invented him. “Look at those shoulders.”

The Captain, who was clothed in the dress-kit uniform of the Rohirrim, looked as if he was wishing that it were possible to actually vaporise with embarrassment.

The young man had a familiar look about him but Aragorn could not place him. He was quickly put out of his confusion by Legolas, exclaiming, “He is Earnulf, Denulf’s son, surely you remember, Aragorn. We practised archery together.”

The young man rose to the occasion, managing to shake off the paralysing effects of his mortification if not his reddened face. He bowed. “My Lord Legolas is too kind, as always, Sire. Perhaps you remember, ten years ago, he took me in hand for a space, when I was a boy.”

Enlightened Aragorn nodded at Earnulf then looked at his grinning friend, hoping for an explanation for why he had brought his surprise to show him like some cat’s trophy. Legolas was still gazing at the horseman as if he was a mid-winter gift. Aragorn caught Gimli’s eye hoping he might explain but the dwarf rolled his eyes in exasperation with the flightiness of elves in general, managing to convey amiable tolerance and pleasure at his old friend’s amazement through his body language, whilst not doing anything but standing at the elf’s side.

No, Aragorn was going to have to winkle the reason for this visit out of the poor boy himself. Aragorn moved to the table and sat, and then invited the others to join him for lunch.

“My Lord?” The poor boy looked shocked. “I can wait outside.” Aragorn pointed one of his more kingly looks at the young man and the Captain subsided into the chair indicated.

“How fares your family, Earnulf?”  Aragorn accepted a plate of food from his bodyguard.

Earnulf, trapped, applied himself to telling of the small doings of his parents and the other inhabitants of Ardscull village while absent-mindedly clearing a huge platter filled for him by the servants who hovered discreetly. Aragorn supposed those shoulders took some filling. He was favourably impressed by this energetic son of the grasslands, and still rather amused by Legolas’ avuncular pride in his physical bounty.  He picked at the food on his own plate before finally pushing it away and picking up his wine.

“And your business in my citadel, Captain?

Earnulf looked stricken and turned for help to Legolas, who simply nodded at him. The boy glanced around the table of interested faces and swallowed and then turned back to Aragorn who had missed none of the nuances.

“Sire, your steward, Cirion, has this morning received the message I carried from my King. The documents explained somewhat of my mission. He requested I wait on your pleasure and explained I might not be able to see you until later this afternoon. I do not wish to interrupt your meal, or your time of rest. Should I not withdraw and allow you your ease?”

Aragorn gazed at the horseman for a moment, and then turned a piqued look on his son.

“Eldarion, are you and Cirion conspiring to coddle me?”

“Father?” Eldarion’s voice sounded suitably shocked, but Aragorn was not fooled.

Aragorn gave Eldarion a ‘later for you’ look and turned back to Earnulf who now wore a worried frown.

“I am not yet in my dotage, Captain, despite my son and steward’s opinion. Earnulf, you will not burden me if you tell me to my face the outline of your message from my good friend Elfwine.” He did not bother to mask the steel in his voice, subtly reminding all round the table just who was ruler in Minas Tirith.

Earnulf tugged at his moustache, and squirmed a little under the full force of Aragorn’s interest. Then visibly pulled himself together and into military report mode.

“As I told your steward, my lord, last month my patrol was riding sweeps from West Emnet to the eves of Fangorn, our orders to track down a small group of outlaws and swindlers that had been preying on the cottagers that are settling the grasslands. We rooted out the main nest and chased the remnant towards the forest.” A certain grim pleasure coloured the young man’s voice as he remembered the successful mission. His eyes lit with enthusiasm again and he leaned forward. “We caught the last two as their poor beasts foundered, nigh on the Gap of Rohan. One died under the hooves of his own horse and the other, I am sorry, my Lord, died of an arrow wound that festered not more than a day and a half later.”

Aragorn nodded, acknowledging the realities of border justice. Earnulf continued.

“I had the patrol camp on the backs of the river Isen, to rest the horses you understand, Sire? On the second day at dawn we were woken by a scream. We all scrambled for our arms and to our horses but before we could as much as draw bow, a sound like the wind in the forest was upon us and into the camp strode … a tree!”

The wonder on Earnulf’s face was transparent, even so long after the event. “We were transfixed to a man, my lord. Poor Healfred, the screamer you understand, was dangling from a hand that looked like a branch, the Ent had an arrow bobbing in its bark near to its eye, and it did not look pleased, my Lord. I am not sure how I knew that, but it is so.” Earnulf lifted his chin, as if daring his fascinated audience to disagree. He was not challenged.

Aragorn made a slight noise of encouragement and Earnulf continued.

“It rumbled at us, my Lords, a noise like hoom, hoom. Then put Healfred down, and stood, well, like a tree, in our midst. I remember the arrow bobbing a little in the breeze from the river. I approached it, and when those golden eyes fixed on me I thought I would not see my home again, but it seemed to have calmed down. Our healer scuttled forward and dragged Healfred away, and then it spoke to me. It took a long time you understand, it did not seem to be able to say anything without many pauses and hoom-hooms, but the gist of the message it gave me was that it requested help from you, Sire.”

Aragorn looked startled. “From me? An Ent asking for assistance. Did it say what the problem was?”

Earnulf smiled slightly. “It was a long day, Sire. I think in the end I am correct in relaying that there is some long-standing darkness in Fangorn that has now started to advance on forest that was previously well, it also seemed to be saying that Fangorn was lost – but I don’t think it meant the forest, Sire. Is there an Ent named for the forest?”

Aragorn looked alarmed but then nodded confirmation of Earnulf’s guess.

“I think this Ent was asking for help from the elves, as well, but in the end it just seemed to lose patience with my inability to understand it and come sunset it turned and strode off. We did not try to detain it.”

Aragorn shared a glance with Legolas, and then turned back to Earnulf.

“And your King has sent you to place this puzzle in my lap?”

Earnulf blushed again. “It did ask for you by name, Sire. Several names in fact. It was the one area in which we had no difficulty understanding it. It asked for Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, the Elfstone, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor. I think it approved of your names, Sire.”

“I collect them with the same facility I collect white hairs, these days, Captain. Thank you.” He turned a thoughtful look on the Lord of Ithilien.

“What think you, Legolas? Shall we go see if we can help the most ancient of our allies?”

Legolas’ blue eyes fairly sparkled with interest. “Gimli and I were going that way anyway. Shall we make a party?”

Gimli shuddered as the aura he had felt in his dream re-visited him, blurring the animated scene briefly.

“Gimli?” Legolas turned to his friend and then frowned at the expression on his friend’s face. “Gimli, are you well?”

Gimli blinked and looked disoriented for a second, and then covered Legolas’ reaching hand with his own warm strong fist.

“Aye, I think Fangorn is on our way, Legolas. Are you coming in person, Aragorn?” He patted the elf on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. “I am going to finish packing.”

Legolas looked anxiously between Gimli and Aragorn. Aragorn frowned a little after the elderly dwarf and, with a look, gave Legolas permission to follow him.

Eldarion spoke from the end of the table, raising his voice over the clamour of chairs being pushed back. “I will arrange it with my father, Lord Gimli.”

Gimli waved an acknowledging hand and vanished into the corridor, closely followed by Legolas.

Aragorn stood also along with Eldarion and Earnulf. “Earnulf, you have lodgings?”

“With my men, if it please you, Sire.”

“If you would remain at my call. It will take some days to arrange this expedition. Your men are the same as were on that patrol?”

Earnulf nodded.

“I may get Cirion to ask them and you some additional questions as they occur. Will your King allow you to escort us on this quest?”

“Those were my orders, Sire. I, and my patrol, are at your disposal.”

Aragorn reached up and clapped the man on his back. “Just so, Captain. Until later. Eldarion?”

Earnulf was escorted out of the room, wondering whether to be elated or worried over the success of his mission. At least he would have a tale for the taproom this evening.

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

Chapter5

Arwen sat at her dressing table by the window, brushing her ebony hair and singing descant to Legolas’ disembodied tenor. Her friend would be perched somewhere on the citadel’s roof.  Aragorn’s guard had long despaired of ever keeping the tiles free of elvenkind. Duilin, ever eager to ensure his liege lord’s security, had not managed to block every access that Legolas used to reach his much loved heights, although, Arwen thought, the long fought strategy game had barred the rooftops to all but the most determined of her kin. To Duilin’s satisfaction no mortal had managed to penetrate his closely monitored security for more than fifteen years. Even now, loyal Duilin would be in his accustomed position guarding the doors of the royal suite. Arwen permitted herself the indulgence of imagining him peering balefully at the ceiling, looking like one of the palace cats swearing vilely at blackbirds that taunted from near but too far branches. She knew it was wrong to make fun of his twitches so, even in the privacy of her mind. Aragorn was ever mindful of his guard’s appalling history and tolerated no teasing. With an effort Arwen virtuously directed her thoughts elsewhere.

Arwen looked beyond her reflection into the candlelit room behind her. Aragorn lay in their shared vast bed, asleep to the lullaby of her singing, without losing his grip on the scroll of Quenya poetry he was determined to translate. Arwen thought the poem not worth the effort in any language; songs of unrequited passion seemed somehow irrelevant given the doom that was approaching her inexorably. She looked at herself in the mirror again, met her own dark eyes.

A wicked breeze probed round the room like a finger in a jar.

Legolas’ song halted mid-phrase and Arwen saw herself shrink into morbid old age, wrinkled and white-haired, her doom upon and past her leaving her a winter leaf crackled and frail, her husband dead on the mattress behind, the world empty of her kin.

The silver-backed brush clattered to the floor as she buried the vision in the cup of her hands with a moan. Taking a deep breath she looked up again, and then screamed long and full-throated at the image she saw in the mirror.

Aragorn, startled from sleep, leapt from his bed groping for Anduril’s hilt. Duilin burst into the anteroom and then into the royal bedroom like an arrow loosened, he skidded to a halt by his lady’s side casting around for the enemy. Legolas swung into the balcony and landed with bone-handled knife in hand only to be almost skewered by Duilin’s instinctive thrust. Aragorn’s timely arrival with sword in hand knocked his guard’s blow aside and the scimitar only opened a finger length cut on the side of the elf’s cheekbone. Legolas touched his face and looked at the guard and then his friend, wide-eyed.

“Hold!” Aragorn bellowed, short of breath suddenly with the tension and fright. “Duilin, it is Legolas.”

A soft sob from Arwen broke the tension. Aragorn lowered Anduril, put down Duilin’s now wavering sword with his hand and turned to his now sobbing wife.

“Arwen?” Aragorn knelt and gathered her in his arms. “Arwen, love. What is it?”

Two more black and silver-clad hall guards advanced cautiously into the bedchamber. “Captain? Sire? Is all well?”

Duilin passed a shaking hand over his face and then peered suspiciously at the elf. His face fell into despair. “My Lord, I saw… I thought I saw… some grey skinned… no it is too strange. My lord, I am sorry.”

Legolas swiped at the trickle of blood, glanced at it on his fingers, then wiped his hand on his leggings. “Some fell spirit blew into this room, Captain. The Queen felt it I felt it, even, it appears, you felt it.”

The elf spun on his heel and closed the double-doors, and then pulled the thick velvet curtains shut over the glass-shrouded night. The room suddenly felt cosy instead of cold.

Duilin finally sheathed his sword and then glanced at his men. Catching the unspoken command they left and took up station again in the hallway.

“Sire?” Duilin addressed his King.

Aragorn glanced up at him, and then looked at Legolas. The elf looked back blandly, clearly not wanting to take offence despite his injury.

“Keep sharp, Captain. You did well. Double the guard tonight, aye?”

Duilin bowed to his King and left.

Arwen stilled against her husband’s shoulder. Legolas dropped to one knee beside the royal couple.

“What was it, Undόmiel? I smelt the foul breath, but you it touched.”

Arwen lifted a fall of hair away from her face and looked at her friend. “In the mirror, Legolas. What do you see in my mirror?’

 Legolas looked long into the reflection, the silence stretched. Legolas noted how the silver in Aragorn’s hair stood out when his head was held in such close contact with his wife’s, the pang that took him was a familiar friend.

“I see the back of your head, the back of Aragorn’s head, my own face, this cut which does not seem to want to stop bleeding.” The elf leaned into the mirror a little and placed a finger on the mark to staunch the flow. “ The bedroom, Arwen. What did you see?”

Arwen dared a peek at the mirror, from the safety of her husband’s shoulder, and, when nothing malign appeared gathered herself and sat up, turning her back on the treacherous glass. Aragorn stood beside her, a hand on her shoulder, Legolas sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet.

“I saw a doom, Legolas. Mine, in old age and solitude, my love’s in death. The world’s in decay and darkness, all the good and bright things drained leaving swamps and foul mires. I saw a blue stone and an ancient being, drawing all to itself, until the earth is drained.” Tears brimmed in Arwen’s eyes and blinking she looked up at the ceiling, struggling for control. Master of herself again she looked down, and then frowned. “Legolas, that cut is bleeding again.”

Aragorn looked sharply at his friend and crouched down to look at the slice, indeed it had sprung open and wept blood. The King took the elf’s hand and placed his fingers carefully along its length. “Hold that there, Legolas, until I dress it.”

The elf held his friend’s eye. “Why has it not sealed, Aragorn? Surely it is not so long nor deep that it is not closed already?”

Aragorn smiled a little. “Only for elvenkind, my friend. The rest of us suffer more for our slips. Perhaps it is all part of this weird night and you will carry a scar to impress the march warden at your next feast day.”

Legolas looked at his friend eyes full of annoyance at his teasing. “She will no doubt give me a matching one to pay me back for being so careless with my face. She does like things just so, Minuial.”

Aragorn and Arwen both laughed a little and the last lingering feeling of doom fled the room. Aragorn left to find a healing poultice for his friend’s cheek and Arwen opened a sandalwood chest, drew out a shawl and then draped it over the mirror.

“Gimli’s vision seems more compelling this eve, Arwen.” Legolas sat on the end of the royal bed, obediently pressing on the cut. “Do you mind lending Aragorn to us?”

Arwen drifted over and sat on the bed beside her friend. “ I mind every day he is not in my company, but it will be so good for him to be away from all this.” She waved an encompassing hand at the city. “He pines for action and suppresses it so ruthlessly that I swear it makes him ill. Eldarion likes to rule, and Cirion does most of the work anyway. Take him, Legolas. Would I could ride with you.”

Legolas took his hand away from his cut and bowed to the Queen. “Come with us, my lady. A company of elves we would make, and hold back any fell airs with our singing.”

Arwen smiled at him and picked up his hand to replace it firmly on his cheek. “Just as our singing repelled those selfsame foul airs tonight. Be sensible Legolas. I want him to enjoy himself a little, not be worried all the time about looking after me. I will visit with our daughter Seregon at Pelargir and frighten our grandchildren into obedience again.”

Legolas smiled at such an unlikely outcome, and felt the tug in his wounded cheek; at least he now shared Gimli’s sense of urgency concerning his vision. Not that he had discounted his friend’s words but this disturbance in Middle-earth’s soul was reminiscent of the foul taste the minions of darkness had left on the path of dreams. It lay on his spirit like soot.

He rose to Aragorn’s beckoning from the anteroom. “Think of me, during your visit, sister. And I will keep your husband safe so that he too can disturb his grandchildren’s dreams with tales of his adventures, on his return.”

Arwen pushed him towards the door. “Go, I will see you tomorrow before you leave. Go and get your beauty mended, we have had enough excitement for several small children’s dreams tonight. I hope your trip is less eventful.”

00000

Gimli dropped off Ascallon’s back into the lush grass of the water meadow bordering the Mering stream. The Fenmarch, that marked Rohan’s east boundary, bumped gently away to the north, smoothing itself in the far distance into a counterpane of green and silver, the braided mouths of the river Entwash. To the south the snow capped peak of Halifirien pierced the afternoon sky like a tooth.

In a flurry of hooves Earnulf’s patrol wheeled in beside Gimli and the Captain dismounted lightly, for such a large human, beside the dwarf.

The young man closed his eyes briefly and breathed in, and then turned a grin devoid of all guile towards Gimli.

“Ah, my Lord. Home. How sweet the grass of Rohan, and look, at last we can see the sky.” Earnulf waved at the immense blue dome that took up three quarters of the world.

“All the sky requires is a flexible neck, lad.” Gimli preferred to be enclosed, and was minded to be grumpy. “Or wings.” A flight of agitated ducks clattered out of hiding and into the air as Aragorn and his guards arrived at the campsite. Gimli eyed Ascallon with disfavour; the white nag was leaning into its elf as he unloaded the light saddlebags that contained all the trail provisions the much-travelled pair ever carried. “I fancy that beast forgets sometimes that he is not so endowed.”

The sudden singing of Legolas’ bow sharpened his attention, and dropped Earnulf’s hand to his sword. But all that fell were two of the unfortunate waterfowl.

Gimli caught the elf’s eye with a raised eyebrow.

“Dinner.” Legolas was unrepentant.

“Show off,” grumbled Gimli.

Gimli glanced around; almost all of the company were occupied in unloading and caring for the horses. He needed to stretch his legs after bumping for most of the day on the back of that demon, so he set off towards the spot he had automatically marked as the birds’ landing place.

The sweet meadow grass in its summer growth almost reached his waist, and the land swelled and dipped deceptively beneath its waving hair. Gimli kept his eye on the end of a fletched arrow and finally reached the first of the birds. He tramped around in a spiral for a moment and found the other, the second arrow was broken.

Gimli looked around in his little trampled oasis of grass-walled privacy, and decided to occupy himself dressing the birds right where he was, the cook would not grudge him the mindless chore, of that he was sure.

Legolas finally missed him hours later as the sun dipped behind Ered Nimrais and the birds of the grassland set up their evening chorus.

“Aragorn?” The elf melted into solidity at the King’s side as he sat outside his pavilion enjoying the outrageously vulgar sunset. Aragorn’s two guards started and dropped their hands to their swords, before relaxing, embarrassed by the elf’s habitual stealth. Legolas ignored them. “Has Gimli been keeping you company?”

“Nay. Is he not with you?” Legolas shook his head, a frown marring his forehead.

Another figure loomed out of the gathering dark, causing the guards to challenge.

“It is I, Earnulf.” The Rohirrim approached the elf, something swinging from his hand. “I found these, my lord, Sire, but no sign of my lord Gimli. Have you had more luck?” Earnulf held up the dressed carcasses of two ducks.

The men and the elf eyed each other in dismay, Gimli’s great age and chancy health crossing more than one mind in that instant.

Aragorn stood and beckoned to his guard.

“Organise a search to the south. Earnulf, will you and your men search from where you found those? Legolas we will follow the stream north,” at a choked sound from his bodyguard he sighed. “I will take three of your guard Duilin, to assist.”

He looked around the frozen tableau. “Go.” He clapped his hands and suited action to words. “The light is failing, Go!”

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong

Set in the same non-slash universe as Adagio, Mayflies and Cadenza. About ten years after the events in Cadenza FA 110

L/G A/A ensemble OC’s

Beta by Theresa Green with my most grateful thanks.

Chapter6

At first the summons came as a song, a song of surpassing sweetness, but Gimli travelled his world with a being that serenaded the grass, the sky and every passing breeze; songs had long since lost any power over the dwarf. To tell the truth the mindless task of dressing and plucking the fowl had lulled Gimli into a trance in which the music seemed only appropriate as he dwelt on plans he had for crafting an intricate housing for a unique piece of jade he had been saving for a special occasion. The iridescent green of the second mallard’s neck feathers reminded him of the stone. He tucked another handful of feathers under the turf into the pit he had cut to contain them; such a messy task, and repetitive.

 He allowed his mind to drift further, thinking on the decorations on the pillars of marble he had seen in Mahal’s hall. Despite his awe, his craftsman’s soul had been intrigued by the winding pattern that was quintessentially dwarven yet reminiscent of the kind of elvish work Gimli had last seen in Rivendell. He could almost see the design wrought in mithril and gold with the water-green jade peeking through. Legolas would not be able to resist it, and the design was turning out feminine. Gimli suppressed a chuckle; the elf would have to give it to Minuial. The dwarf snorted, blowing a small cloud of down off his lap. The lad showed no sign of working out his love life for himself, perhaps he could do with a dwarven go-between.

Gimli ran his sharp knife over the last pinfeathers and stubborn down, working out the stragglers between forefinger and blade, and then placed the knife on the ground for cleaning later. He stood to up, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. The westering sun struck gold off the Mering stream at the bottom of the rise and Gimli suddenly felt soiled by feathers and duck-blood. The water winked invitingly at him, twinkling between the leaves of the willows that lined that section of bank.

A disturbance in the grass caught his eye, a whistle followed by a chittering call. A two-tone whiskered furry face parted the grass walls of his clearing, grey above and cream below, no more than a hand span from the ground. At its shoulders two more peeked out, first one side, then the other. Gimli stared, open-mouthed.

Three lithe grey bodies tumbled over each other into his work area; three faces peeked cheekily at the dwarf who had moved quickly to pick up his carcasses. One snatched at his skinning knife.

“Oi! That’s sharp. Leave it!”

Gimli stepped towards the first mischief on legs, and tripped over one of its companions. The dwarf fell to one knee dropping the birds while reaching for his knife. He had worked that blade himself; he had no intention of losing it.

 The leader turned a beady eye on him, flashed a mouth full of yellow teeth and fishy breath in his direction, and then picked up the knife, hilt first, in its mouth and ran playfully into the grass heading for the stream, his companions tumbling after.

“Otters.” Exclaimed Gimli. “Thieving, wretched, mischief making, otters.”

Gimli plunged off down the slope in hot pursuit of his knife and skidded to a halt at the stream edge, catching himself on a willow branch, as his booted feet wanted to keep sliding on the muddy bank. The otters were playing in the middle of the stream, diving and bobbing about. Gimli found himself frightened that the silly creatures would hurt themselves in their play, and sadly resigned himself to losing the knife. He stooped to pluck a shiny white stone from the bank.

“Here, you imps.” He threw the stone, hoping that they would catch it and drop the dangerous knife. To his relief one of the smaller beasts took the bait, surfacing with his stone cradled against its chest. Seeing the new game, the larger animal lost interest in the knife and submerged only to explode out of the water almost on top of the stone holder. The chase was on in seconds.

“Foolish beasts. The water can have the blade, may it never cause you harm.” Gimli looked at the swift flowing stream where he had last seen his knife and shook his head.

“A pleasing gift.”

The rich sound of a woman’s voice sounded from almost directly behind Gimli. He felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and turned, slowly.

Standing on the bank, no more than an arms length from him, was what looked like a human woman. Her dress appeared flowing, blue and diaphanous, her hair, tied in an intricate knot with a red ribbon was greenish gold, her eyes; Gimli flinched from her eyes, they seemed as deep as a mire, as light as a feather, more dangerous than a river in spate.

She turned his knife in her white slender hands, twisting it so that the wirework on the hilt caught the light.

“My - my, Lady?” Gimli found himself pressed against the rough bark of the willow’s trunk.

Those eyes considered him. “Would you consult with me, metal-smith?”

The apparition leaned towards him, and breathed in, and in as if she could inhale him. Gimli became miserably conscious of his besmirched state. He put his grimy hands behind him. One of her long fingered hands reached for his neck, and Gimli swallowed. Deftly she hooked out the crystal he always wore on a chain round his neck. She hissed, sounding like the wind in a reed bed.

“Hers.”

Gimli’s hand came up to catch at his treasure. Galadriel’s hair shone like sunlight in its matrix.

 “A gift, to me.” With a tug Gimli pulled the gem from the long-fingered hand. His chin lifted as anger fought with caution. “The more precious since she sailed.”

A smile lit the enigmatic oval of her face. “Ah, yes, she sailed.”

A long finger traced lightly down the Dwarf’s beard, and then touched the hand that clutched at his gem. Gimli felt as if a bucket of spring water had been poured over his head and shivered from crown to ankle. The blood and flecks left his skin; a single downy feather drifted towards the mud and lay at her feet, trembling in the breeze.

“She sailed, and I am unbound, to catch and keep as I may. Shall I keep you, little metal worker, who carries the token of my enemy? Would you like my watery halls? I have a great selection of keepsakes. Halflings, elves, men, orcs, all the drowned people of Middle-earth, and only a few of your kind.”

Gimli let his anger grow; it helped warm his terror.

“I am no toy of yours, Lady.  I travel to right an evil that will taint even your lands if it spreads much further. Have you not felt the wrongness flowing from Fangorn into your waters? I am charged with the resolving of that mystery.”

Gimli thought of telling her that he was not alone and would be missed, but quashed the thought before it could pass his lips. He did not want this capricious being to turn her attention to any of his companions. He only hoped they would not stumble on him while she toyed with him, he had no doubt Legolas at least would be looking for him. The setting sun was painting a riot of colours across the evening sky but he could not account for where the hours of the afternoon had gone. It felt like he had only been detained for minutes by this magical being.

The Lady’s face puckered into a frown and her eyes flicked beyond Gimli. She blurred slightly as if she stretched to the West, and then snapped back into focus, intent on the dwarf.

“She is getting greedy, the little witch. She sucks on all our power, like a leech. Think you that you are match for that one, metal-smith? She will eat you up and spit out your bones to make more mausoleums for her love. Shall I take you to her? It will be amusing to watch.”

A long white arm encircled Gimli’s waist. Bemused he found himself standing in the middle of the river, gliding downstream towards the mouths of Entwash within the circle of her arms, the moon lighting a shining path before them. He blinked, and from the west bank another light was kindled, bright enough to rival the moon. Into view came Ascallon, gleaming in the shadows, her rider’s cloak streaming behind him and his golden hair flowing in the wind of his speed. A white light shone from his form and Gimli’s heart lifted, shaking itself from the shackles magic had placed on his spirit.

“Legolas!” He cried with the last of his resolve. “Beware.”

00000

Aragorn stooped by the riverbank, ducking under the reaching arm of the willow tree that had arrested Gimli’s rush to the water.

“I wish this glimmer would shed more light, Legolas.” The King peered at the silver grey of the stream, its pale rushing making the banks darker by contrast. The sun was well set and only a faint golden afterglow lit the west. To the east hard bright stars peered down on him, like curious eyes.

Legolas had paused by the trunk of the willow, and now was leaned full body against the bark, his forehead resting on the tree.

“Legolas?”

Aragorn turned to see his friend spring away from the tree, an expression of cold fury on his face.

“Legolas, my friend. What is it?”

“She dares. After my father and I treated with her in respect and authority, she dares to start her games again.”

Legolas lifted fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing whistle, and then slung his quiver from his back, checked the number of arrows, re-donned it and swirled away, striding up the bank to meet Ascallon’s thundering approach. Aragorn may have well have been invisible.

“Legolas?” Aragorn’s voice went from concerned to astonished. Rarely had he seen his elven companion so discomposed. “Where are you going?”

Legolas looked down on the King from Ascallon’s back. “This is Elvish business, Aragorn. Gimli has fallen foul of Melusina the river-daughter. She is well known to me.” He added parenthetically. “I must away, Gimli is in mortal danger – follow.”

Ascallon half reared, matching her master’s agitation and impatience – then sprung away to the north along the banks of the stream, leaving Aragorn and his guards open mouthed behind him.

Finally finding his voice, after a space of time, Aragorn signalled his guard. “Find some of the others. You, bring our horses. We are to ‘follow’.”

The guards met their King’s irony with a poker face and hurried to obey. The remaining soldier followed his King on foot up the riverbank, heading north. Privately he doubted that anyone had spoken to the King of Gondor in quite those tones for a lifetime of men. The man matched his pace to his lord and kept his counsel.

00000

The hiss of Legolas’ arrow matched the lady’s dismayed exhalation. The green fletching touched the river, somehow halting their headlong progress. Gimli felt himself sinking into water that had the consistency of sucking mud. He let out an involuntary squeak of dismay.

“Thorskil, Nykur, Melusina, hold!” Legolas’ clear ringing tones seemed to bring reality back to the night. The water turned liquid and Gimli vanished beneath its surface. “Bring him to me, Nykur.”

Gimli was hauled up, by the back of his sodden jacket, and cast onto the riverbank to gasp and splutter like a landed trout. Neither shining being paid him the slightest attention, nor broke their intent concentration on the other.

Legolas stood straight and impossibly tall on the riverbank, The seeming woman stood equally tall, but abashed before him. Somehow she looked younger, Gimli almost expected her to twist a foot in the grass like an admonished child.

“I have you by your names, Lady. What is mine?”

“Legolas, Thrandullion, lordofithilien.” The lady mumbled in a small voice, her long white hands clutching at each other, one over the other.

“What was that, Melusina? Did I hear you? Was that Lord of Ithilien, to whom, not one season ago, I promised most faithfully to behave? Promised that I would play no more tricks on travellers, bending my interest to matters of my domain, namely the river, the fen and its banks? Who promised on the name of Nienna the merciful that she would work no more mischief.”

“Wasn’t.” The spirit looked mulish and fixed her gaze on the ground. “Taking it where it wanted to go.”

Legolas fixed her with a blue-eyed stare that should, by its intensity, have turned her watery substance to the most insubstantial of vapours. He stalked around her, and where he passed a thin white circle marked the grass.

“I bind you, Madam. To wait my pleasure and my better temper, the swamp and its inhabitants will do without you for a space.” Legolas completed his circle and then stood contemplating the spirit with a look of disgust on his face, despite the large eyed imploring look Melusina turned on him.

Finally the spirit hissed and folded in on herself, sat in a folded up bundle within the bounds of his circle, knees to ears and hair over her face.

“Elves.” Gimli heard her intone in a voice of deep disgust. “Hates elves.”

TBC

Rose Sared

 04/06/05

The muses return! This chapter full of gratuitous Gimli grinding and awful Elfy angst with absolutely no plot. No apologies, it is such fun to be writing again. Rose

I have posted this without a beta (Are you out there Theresa?) because the next chapter is pushing my head all out of shape and I want to get this one away first. Forgive me the obvious edits then - I will put them in later.

 Evensong 7

Gimli coughed a goodly portion of the Entwash from his lungs, spat a tributary into the mud beside him and then struggled to his feet, shivering hard and feeling like an abandoned load of laundry.

Everything oozed water.

He gathered up his beard and strangled most of the wet out of it, and then stripped more moisture from the hair on his head.

A cruel wind flowing off the river ran icy fingers down the back of his neck, cold gripped his skull with iron claws.

Muttering imprecations under his breath, Gimli squelched his way up the riverbank, away from both Legolas and Melusina. The wind found its way under his clinging shirt, it felt sharp enough to be cutting holes right through him.

Legolas turned his head to follow his laboured progress up the bank but did not yet abandon his post just outside the ring of binding he had imposed on the water-spirit.

Gimli looked at them both for a moment, glowing in more than the light of the moon, then turned his back on their uncanniness.

‘Aiie, it was cold!’

The moon painted a wind-bent huddle of shrubby trees silver and black. Gimli made his way into their scant shelter. The wind wickedly found more interesting places to chill as he stooped for kindling wood in the rough grass. His shivers were starting to become full body shudders that threatened the small pile of fuel he gathered.

Cursing monotonously, to the rhythm of the his chattering teeth, Gimli made his way to a slightly more sheltered hollow on the back of the river bank where he kicked some stranded river-pebbles into a rough circle.

He dropped the wood and followed it down to sit hunched by his makeshift campsite, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth.

Now would be a good time for his friend to abandon that witch and arrive – Gimli belatedly realised that he had no way to light the wood into the fire that he needed. His tinderbox was as sodden as the rest of him.

Wishing did not make Legolas appear, sadly, and the moon stalked overhead as Gimli sat in the shivering dark, waiting.

The wind veered around and started a new excavation in Gimli’s ear.

Gimli thought he should stand up, make an attempt to wring some water from his clothes. It seemed too much effort, and the white light of the moon was starting to feel warm. The warmth tempted him to close his eyes for a moment. Legolas was sure to be with him soon and he would light the fire.

Gimli battled with his heavy eyelids.

Perhaps he could hail Legolas, now his teeth were not chattering so. It was strange how warm the moonlight was.

The wind, capricious again swirled round and blew its frigid breath into the dwarf’s face. Gimli opened his eyes. Legolas was floating into the little hollow, his cloak billowing around him in the wind. Gimli’s eyes slid shut again before he could ask him to light the fire.

“Gimli!” A rough hand was shaking him.

“Gimli!” Bother the voice. Lovely comfortable dark beckoned but the voice kept chasing it away.

“Gimli.”

He felt himself swept up off the accommodating ground and into a pair of iron-strong arms. This was going too far, he was a warrior not some hobbit to be carried. His own feet, by Aule. He stood on his…

“Aragorn this way! Valar be praised you have found us. That bitch dropped him in the Entwash…”

00000

Aragorn looked up from the paper packages of herbs he was sorting just in time to avoid colliding with Earnulf’s broad shoulders.

“Sire.”

Earnulf was wrestling with a hastily constructed windbreak. The wind was attempting to pluck it from the young man’s hands, however Earnulf appeared to be winning. Two of Aragorn’s personal guard were holding the other end of the panel.

Aragorn nodded approvingly, “Carry on, Captain. The pickets are set?”

Earnulf nodded and then wielded a mallet with which he drove the end stake of the windbreak convincingly into the turf.

“Aye. Two by the river bank, keeping an eye on Lord Legolas’ captive and two by the horses, as you requested.”

Aragorn looked gratified and started down into the hollow where a roaring fire was settling in the added shelter of the panels.

“Sire?”

Aragorn turned.

“Esgarth is cooking – yonder,” Earnulf waved a meaty arm to indicate the main encampment of soldiers. “Shall we bring food for yourself and Lord Legolas?”

“Aye and some for Lord Gimli, Captain. He will be awake soon or I know not dwarf-kind.”

Earnulf grinned at the King and then ducked his head, “The men will be pleased to hear that, Sire.”

Aragorn smiled back at the man, then carried on down to the fireside where Legolas was tending the small, bundled, form of his friend by the light of the flames. The shadowy silhouettes of the rest of Aragorn’s bodyguard were just visible at the edge of the fire lit space.

Aragorn stooped to crumble the contents of several packages into a kettle he had ordered fetched before he realised he would have to retrieve the herbs from his saddlebag himself. Satisfied with the brew he pushed the kettle into the coals at the edge of the fire to warm.

“Has he woken, Legolas?”

Legolas fussed with the edge of the wool blanket cocooning his friend, flipping it to one side to bare Gimli’s face and part of his shoulder and arm. The golden light of the flames painted copper into the silver of Gimli’s hair and beard, gifting the dwarf the appearance of youth for a space.

The Elf ran a light hand down his friend’s arm and fished out one of Gimli’s work-worn hands.

“He stirs and then settles again.”

Legolas slid his palm under Gimli’s and lifted the dwarf’s limp arm slightly. Aragorn was fascinated to see how much smaller Gimli’s hand was than his friend’s. Gimli’s stumpy digits only came to the second joint of the Elf’s fingers.

“His hands are cold yet, although his shoulder and arm feel warm enough.”

Legolas tucked the hand and arm back under the blanket and shifted the dwarf’s weight back against his chest.

“This is new to me, Estel.” Legolas gazed into the flames, “The endurance of Dwarves is legendary. How could such a little thing as cold bring him so low?”

Aragorn sighed.

“Legolas, look at him.”

Legolas glanced down at his friend and then back at the King, his expression puzzled.

Aragorn moved round the fire and settled beside the Elf. He reached forward across Legolas’ body and folded back the edge of the blanket to expose Gimli’s sleeping face.

“Tell me what you see, my friend.”

Legolas studied Gimli’s still features.

“I see what I ever have, Aragorn. My true friend, a mighty warrior yet a gentle soul. He is anchored in his very being to this earth, as I have rarely been.”

Aragorn reached and ran a soft finger down Gimli’s seamed cheek. Then he looked into the brilliant eyes of his old friend.

“His personality, indeed, seems to inhabit a space big enough to fit young Earnulf; shoulders and all. But you must take the fond lenses from your eyes and really see him, Legolas. He is no longer in his prime, my friend. Long life and poor health have diminished him physically even as nothing could diminish his presence. He is becoming frail, and yet the same flame of passion that has ever filled him, still drives him. In his self I am sure he believes that he is as hale as ever. It is his body not his spirit that betrays him.”

Legolas bowed his head and closed his eyes, as if to deny these unwelcome truths. Finally a faint smile relieved the solemnity of his face, but the eyes that met Aragon’s were ancient, reflecting years beyond the King’s mortal understanding.

“For centuries, Aragorn, my people and I fought in the forests of my father, opposing the great darkness even though we had no hope nor expectation of victory. Many immortal lives were lost to Middle-earth in that struggle. My close kin, friends, innocents that deserved a kinder fate; and then, against any reason, evil was defeated.”

Legolas combed his fingers idly through some stray threads of Gimli’s hair.

“My own part in that unlooked for victory has left me a peculiar legacy. I find myself unwilling to bend to reason, to guard my heart from bitter loss. I will not lose him, Aragorn, against sense or good counsel, I will find a way to keep his company.”

The Elf looked away into the wind-whistling dark and Aragorn found himself bereft of words. He patted Legolas on the shoulder and then moved away to see if the tea had brewed.

00000

The acrid smell of singing wool pulled Gimli up from a disturbingly deep place.

“Faugh! I’ve got it.”

The smell diminished and he felt a faint tugging near his feet. There was the feel of people moving around him. Gimli’s confusion overcame his desire to slip back into the comfortable dark.

When his eyes finally consented to open it was to the indisputable fact that some time had elapsed. Instead of his forlorn pile of sticks a roaring fire was burning in front of him. Someone had removed his wet clothes and wrapped him in a heavy blanket. He was dry, Aulë be praised.

His eyes drifted shut again, only to snap open as he realised he was being held. A warm body pressed along the length of his back, arms encircled his shoulders and his head was propped up against someone’s chest.

What liberty was this! Gimli jerked himself sideways and around so that he could see who would dare.

Legolas’ amused eyes met his with not even the beginnings of an apology dancing in their fire-lit depths.

Gimli summoned all the outrage that wounded pride could muster.

“Put me down, Master Elf!”

Legolas loosened his hold and carefully moved his friend so that he was sitting beside him, rather than in his lap. To his chagrin Gimli found he still had to lean slightly against the elf in order to maintain his balance. Legolas propped him up without comment.

 His treacherous body felt the lack of the elf’s shared heat and he shivered slightly despite the baking fire.

Aragorn, manfully not smiling, handed the disgruntled dwarf a steaming mug.

“Sip this, please Gimli. You got far too cold and I want you warmed from the inside, as well as out.”

Gimli sniffed the contents and wrapped his hands round the welcome heat of the drink but met the King’s eye with a challenge.

“I am a Dwarf. Dwarves do not feel the cold.”

A muscle in Aragorn’s cheek twitched.

“It is good, my friend, to see that you are feeling more like yourself.”

“Whom else should I be feeling like?” Gimli grumped, ungraciously.

Aragorn and Legolas’ exchanged a look. Aragorn reached and squeezed Gimli’s forearm.

“Please indulge me. I can ill afford to lose my old friend to such a foolish hazard.”

“Gimli?” said Legolas.

 Gimli shifted slightly, and then took a sip of the tea.

Aragorn looked over Gimli to Legolas, manifestly seeking a safer subject for conversation.

“I see you have the river-daughter bound?”

Legolas’ expression seemed to harden. He nodded curtly, “She broke her word. She promised my father and me that she would create no more mischief for travellers. Faithless creature.”

“She knows something of our quest though, Legolas.” Gimli paused in his drinking to wave his mug vaguely to the west, “She spoke of some Witch and seemed jealous of her power. She may know more than we could find out from my searching in dusty tomes, saving your pardon, Aragorn.”

Aragorn smiled at him and looked thoughtful.

“Well, she can wait until morning,” Legolas stated, uncharitably.

Legolas reached a long arm and accepted a plate of the food Esgarth had brought to the fire, and then placed its twin in reach of Gimli. Without comment he handed Gimli one of his elegant belt knives to eat with. Gimli looked long on his friend and Legolas held his gaze, and then, as if all had been said of thanks and thankfulness, the two of them turned their attention to the meat.

Aragorn shook his head slightly and bent to his own plate.

In the windswept dark a chorus of frogs started. Legolas lifted his head and looked in the direction of the river.

“Melusina strains at my bounds.”

“They will hold?” Aragorn glanced round into the increasingly noisy dark.

“Until morning,” said Legolas.

And they did, even when the camp was woken by the mewling screams of a flock of summoned gulls.

00000

The Dwarf, once known as Narvi to her kin, now not known at all by any but her sacred charge, pattered down the carved corridor, as she did every morning.

She did not see the riot of beasts and birds that she herself had carved in the endless lonely ages she had held herself prisoner. Her free hand trailed unconsciously along their familiar contours, habit placing her finger into the grooves worn by the uncounted years. The dished granite flags rang softly to her familiar tread and did not disturb the Elf as he sat, cradled in the portal she had shaped to frame him, in the dawn light.

He sang to the sun and let the new day paint a halo around him, limning his hair and white robe to radiance.

Narvi whisked into his presence, bearing a tray with covered pots that seeped mild tendrils of aromatic steam.

The sun rose inexorably and the Elf’s song finished. Narvi placed the tray, just so, on the graceful table beside him, then stifled a gasp as she saw the back of his robe being marred, again, by a creeping stain.

“No.” she whispered, her hand drifting of its own volition to her mouth. Valda the great ring caressed her upper lip and called to her.

“It is too soon.”

Valda made promises, the stain seemed to grow before her eyes, marring the perfection he demanded, that she craved.

Without her volition her left hand, bearing the blue stone, drifted lightly down the arc of his spine. Mending ran through her, again. The web that had sustained them for so long tensed, and far off a branch fell from a tree in the forest, rotted and drained of its life.

Languidly Celebrimbor turned to look at her.

“Should we, old friend?”

He breathed deeply and Narvi could see his rib cage lifting beneath the robe, could see the end of the newly healed but never healing scar that marred his neck. His voice in speech, as in song, caressed her.

“The work Master – how else?”

“The work,” echoed the Elf  “Have you seen it, Narvi? It is good. Good to see and feel and work. I walked the path of dreams for so long.”

“I had to hide you, Master. Until he was gone.”

“Too long, old friend. I am not as I was.”

“Nothing is as it was, Master. Nothing except Narvi. Here,” she lifted the cover from one of the pots, “drink.”

TBC

Ch8

Aragorn woke in the grey wash of dawn to the raucous screams of sea birds. He lay disorientated for a moment, his gaze idling around the familiar inside of his campaign tent, trying to place himself in time.

Lebinnin, the Corsairs? No. South Gondor, the Haradrim? He propped himself up on an elbow and heard the damp croaking of innumerable frogs.

His back pinched him, and suddenly, as the minor aches and pains of morning flowed over him like a detested robe, he knew where and when he was.

“But, gulls?” His breath caught. “Legolas.”

With less grace than determination he rolled out of his bedroll and clambered to his feet, snatching his leather coat off its peg on the tent-pole and shouldering it on. He stood for a second, swaying slightly and taking in the inside of his quarters, he saw his battered black-enamel chest that doubled for wardrobe, desk and table, Anduril on its stand, the cunningly wrought oil lamp, a gift from Gimli.

Gimli.

Aragorn scrubbed his hand through his hair as if pushing sense into his head. The sucking flap of the wind plucked at the canvas of his tent; the gulls called again.

He splashed water onto his face from the bowl on the washstand, and then thought back to last night as he sat in his folding chair to lace his boots. The baggage carts had caught up with the main party shortly after supper and then there had been the usual turmoil of pitching tents and ordering the camp.

Gimli had retired to finish the night under cover, out of the cold. At first the old dwarf had looked mulish, but then Legolas had looked inflexible, and Gimli, after token resistance had acquiesced.

Legolas had indicated he would join his friend after checking on Melusina and Aragorn had been happy enough to leave them to it. The captain of his bodyguard, Duilin, who had been hovering, hurried to report, and then there had been a dispatch case of documents to deal with and the messenger to send back to Minas Tirith.

Aragorn pushed his way out of the door-flap, nodded to the two guards who snapped to attention as he passed, paused for a moment to assess the day and then ducked his head into the neighbouring tent. Legolas was not there, but then the bedroll that should have contained Gimli was empty as well.

The King stood up and looked into the east. A swirl of white and grey gulls swooped through the neat rows of the camp, twisting in their flight like swallows, chasing a leader who trailed some scrap from the midden. More stood sentinel on the top of the riverbank, sharp beaks all facing the wind.

Dervoron, Duilin’s sergeant, marched up to stand beside his King.

“Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli?” Aragorn hoped the man was more awake than he was.

Dervoron waved an arm indicating the riverbank, “By the Lord Legolas’ captive, Sire”.

“Alone?” Aragorn’s voice was a little sharp.

“Earnulf, and some of his men are covering them, Sire. ”

Aragorn felt his shoulders relax a little, he nodded to Dervoron, “Anything else?”

“Breakfast, Sire?”

Aragorn waved away the notion, “After I have checked on the Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond, Dervoron.” He set off towards the riverbank.

 Dervoron signalled one of the door guards to attend him, and sent the other off towards the cook fires.

Aragorn made his way, via the privy, to the riverbank.

The wind tugged at his coat as he breasted the small rise revealing the sun-bright Entwash and its near bank. A string of gulls lifted into the air like the tail of a kite, clearing his path to Melusina.

He could see Legolas, with Gimli standing like some ancient rock behind him, and behind them, ranged in a rough semi-circle, Earnulf and three of his men, bows strung but at alert ease.

The red ribbon in Melusina’s hair shone like a flame in the new-minted sun. Legolas was leaning towards her, intently, as Aragorn drew close he caught the end of their discussion.

“I cannot trust you,” Legolas waved his hand at the fens, glinting gold in the morning light, stretching to the horizon across the river, “your charge is vast but still you will do mischief, Lady.”

“Mischief? She does mischief; she draws on the fabric of our world, Elf. Magic calls magic – you can feel it if you would. If you would attend to your proper work and leave these mortals alone. You accuse me of meddling and mischief, what do the elves do about her.”

“Her, who?” Legolas paced to one side then back, glaring at the sprite. “You talk in riddles, madam.”

“Free me.”

“Tell me.” Legolas toed the line of her binding.

“Ask him.” Melusina shifted her dark gaze to the dwarf.

Legolas moved so that he intercepted her line of sight. The river-daughter frowned, then smiled and shrugged.

“I have all the time left to Middle-earth, Elf. Have you?”

She lifted a finger and a flight of gulls spiralled into the sky, calling. Gimli moved a pace and touched his shoulder to Legolas’s side. The Elf who had not sagged, nonetheless straightened.

Melusina’s smile warmed, she lifted her whole arm and most of the gulls lofted, wheeled, and then streamed away south, for the sea. Involuntarily Legolas’ eyes followed them.

“Free me, Elf. You know I could break this binding if I must.”

“And let your fen carry the cost? Not willingly, madam.”

The river-daughter’s gaze intensified, “So now you begin to understand, Legolas. Free me,” she paused, seemed to fight some internal battle. “Please?”

“Lend me a guide, if you know the source of this discord.”

Melusina looked thoughtful, “As you will.”

 She nodded at the riverbank behind the elf. Two grey-winged gulls fluttered down and landed. One screeched at the other, arching its neck, the smaller crouched and moved away a pace or two.

“They will do.” Melusina’s expression calculated the cost of her gift. “Free me.”

Legolas sighed, a sound echoed by both Aragorn and Gimli.

The elf turned his head slightly and Aragorn thought he could see the sea surging behind the brilliance of his eyes.

Aragorn moved a step closer and laid a supportive hand on Legolas' shoulder. The elf leaned into him for a moment, and then drew breath and sang one clear note.

There was a surprised, “Harrumph!” from Gimli, and a yelp from one of Earnulf’s men.

Aragorn shifted his gaze from the crease that had appeared between the elf’s eyebrows and glanced at where Melusina had been. The circle was gone, she was gone and the grass looked untrampled, as if no one had ever been there.

Everyone looked at the empty space in the ringing silence created by the cessation of the frog song.

“Would you join me for breakfast, Legolas, Gimli?” Aragorn asked, eventually, stepping back after giving Legolas’ shoulder a final supportive squeeze.

Legolas smoothed elven serenity over his features with all the grace of a cook scraping a plate, and Gimli snorted, amused

“Why not?” said the elf.

They made their way back to the comfort of Esgarth’s campfires.

The gulls lifted as they passed, spiralling up into the breeze, to hang over them, sliding like living beads back and forth along the wind.

00000

They had been given their guides so it made sense to follow the Entwash and the birds and make their way over the plains of Rohan towards Fangorn.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli with the rest of the main party set off by late morning. They moved at the pace of the baggage wagon as they really had no timetable and Aragorn wanted a quiet day for Gimli, who would have disdained any such consideration had he been consulted.

The gulls flew before them and the grasses of the great plain of Rohan grew lush and long, brushing the bellies of their horses and filling the air with the smell of growing things.

Legolas took a deep breath, like one who drinks a deep draught after a long thirst.

“Ah! The green smell of Rohan is still the same, it is still better than sleep; it sooths my spirit.”

“Fool of an elf.” Gimli said for form’s sake. But he shared a gratified look with Aragorn.

Legolas’ horse, Ascallon, shook his gleaming head and snorted at the grass seed, happily.

The wind blew them on their way, combing the grasses into flowing patterns in front of them. A warm sun shone from a sky decorated with puffs of cloud, the freezing autumn temperatures of last night and even this morning were a hard to credit memory.

Earnulf and his men rode as outriders, Duilin and his men rode behind the King’s party, Dervoron and another flanked the two horses.

As the day’s shadows lengthened behind them the gulls led them slightly south of the Entwash to an area of gently rolling hills, the grass shortened and the way grew a little steeper, until late in the afternoon, the whole party stopped on top of an escarpment.

 The vantage point showed the valley of the Snowbourne, picked out in rich golds, with every fold in the land outlined in shadow by the sinking sun. The fertile valley bottom was cultivated and the patchwork of golden fields and nestled villages reminded Aragorn strongly of the Shire.

“Shall we go down tonight, Sire?”

Earnulf cantered back to the main party having left his troop by a small wood that crested the slope and guarded the cut that the party would use to descend to the valley floor.

“There is a ferry, yonder?”

“Aye.” Earnulf pointed at a slightly larger group of ten or more cottages strung out along the river bank facing a smaller group of four on the west bank of the tree lined river, “At Crossbourne.”

Aragorn pondered for a moment and then twisted around so that he could see the baggage wagon labouring up the incline behind them. He could hear Duilin’s encouraging shouts as the rear guard helped the wheel over a small obstruction.

“Nay, I think we will rest in the shade of that wood tonight and make the ferry tomorrow. What say you, Legolas?”

Legolas tilted his head, “Trees are rest enough for a wood-elf, Aragorn. You will get no argument from me.” He looked over to the trees and then narrowed his eyes.

“What ails Peep and Squawk?”

Gimli had irreverently named their guides for their behaviour, at their lunch stop.

The birds were wheeling in and out of the trees calling.

Aragorn squinted into the sun. “There is someone there. Can you see Legolas? Under the trees, away to the left of Earnulf’s men?"

Legolas looked intently into the woods, and then, with a cry of pleasure he jolted Ascallon into a canter and rushed towards the wood.

“What!” Gimli cried, trying to see around Legolas. “Who do you see?”

“Radagast, Gimli. Radagast the Brown, the companion of my youth. Radagast! Hail friend and well met.” Legolas raised his musical voice in delight.

Radagast was standing in the shade of the trees talking to the gulls that were strutting on the turf in front of him.

Aragorn watched Legolas stop Ascallon, drop down to the springy grass and run the last few steps to meet the brown-robed, bearded, wizard. Gimli dismounted more carefully and waited by Ascallon as his friend approached the old man.

Aragorn saw the wizard look up and note Earnulf’s armed company approaching warily. The little group of Legolas, Gimli and the wizard faded gently from the King’s view, the wizard and his guests seemingly melting into the shadows of the trees from whence he had come.

Aragorn groaned and dropped his head. It appeared that it was his fate on this trip to tangle with every magical being left in Middle-earth.

Earnulf shouted in anger and spurred off towards his confused men. Dervoron drew his sword and rode protectively a few paces in front of the King.

Aragorn stiffened his back and sat taller in the saddle.

“No, Earnulf, hold!”  Earnulf stopped obediently but looked in confusion between the King and his men milling near the trees.

Aragorn felt every one of his years; these children had not even been born the last time their people had interacted with one of the Order of Istari.

“One does not meddle in the affairs of wizards, gentlemen. Not if you want to be the same shape in the eve as you were in the morning, anyway. Radagast is no threat, Dervoron. Earnulf, bring back your men to me, now!”

Earnulf cast a sceptical look Aragorn’s way but then saluted and clattered off to carry out the King’s orders. Dervoron reined his horse back so that he was only a little ahead of his King and sheathed his sword. He did not take his eyes off the wood.

Aragorn raised his voice so that the whole company could hear.

“Radagast, the Wizard, is an old friend and known ally of both Gondor and Rohan, but of a retiring humour. I have no doubt the Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond will return safely to our side in good time. Meanwhile, let us set up camp for the night, we will probably have company to entertain.”

TBC

 Rose Sared

Beta by the remarkable Theresa Green.

She rescues me tirelessly from run on sentences, more repetitions than you could believe if you knew how often I edit these chapters before she gets them, and my complete inability to punctuate speech despite having crib charts on the wall beside the computer- Oh, and those blasted anachronisms. She is a saint, and a very good writer.  Hie thee to her web page on fiction.net and read her original stuff. It is great! (She has a wicked slashy sense of humour too, which is very bad for me in this universe as-‘This. Is. Not. Slash.’- said in a voice loud enough to reach from New Zealand to England! LOL)

Evensong Chapter 9

The wooden shaft bearing the banner of Rohan jerked against Earnulf’s shoulder as his horse picked its way down the cart track that led from King Elessar’s camp to the valley. In front of him the path was almost more obscured than revealed by the flickering torches held by the outriders.

Earnulf heard a muffled curse, over the chinking sound of horse tack and creaking leather, as the bearer of the White Tree of Gondor was also assaulted by his standard.

Earnulf twisted round, shared a smile with the afflicted Dervoron, and did a quick visual check of the following six riders. They looked quite comfortable, letting their horses do the work A cheerful glow from the camp backlit the trees on the plateau above. Earnulf faced front again and was relieved to see the torchbearers trotting out onto flatter land.

Once they were all down, Earnulf dressed the company into a more soldierly column and took his bearings. To the west the lights of Crossbourne’s tavern shone welcome into the night.

“Look sharp now, men.” Earnulf clucked at his horse so that it moved into a brisk trot. “Let us put on a good show for the villagers. To the inn, Esgarth.”

“Aye, Sir.” Esgarth sounded amused as they all set off in good order.

A dog erupted into noisy challenge from behind a dark farmhouse, but, apart from the jingle of harness and the beat of hooves, the countryside remained quiet.

The short hairs on Earnulf’s neck began to prickle. The gentle night breeze brought with it the smell of the river but little smell of wood smoke, even as it tugged at the running horse above his head.

The sky still glowed indigo and eggshell in the aftermath of sunset and country folk should be at their meat; the noise of the company passing should have pulled them to their doors like iron flakes to a lode stone. One or two house curs should be snapping at the horse’s hooves with a small boy or two in close attendance.

Apart from the lone hound that bayed unwearied at their backs, there was nothing.

The troop clattered onto the paved street that threaded the village en route to the ferry. The village houses turned blind and shuttered faces to the company. No smoke rose from the silhouetted chimneys.

“Halt!” Earnulf had patrolled these lands in the name of his king for far too long to think this was a normal evening in a country village.

Esgarth, no mirth at all on his face now, rode back to his captain, his bow strung and to hand, his torch extinguished. His fellow outrider remained on point, equally armed and quenched. Still no villagers ventured out to investigate the commotion. The inn’s beckoning lights were accompanied by no sound of merrymaking or even invitingly open door.

“What’s going on, Captain?” Esgarth kept flicking his gaze around trying to spot an enemy. “Where are the people?”

Earnulf was busy furling his banner; Dervoron already had his stowed alongside his saddle.

“Look to your weapons, Sergeant. Dervoron?”  The Gondorian guard moved forward to flank his stirrup.

“What think you?” Earnulf waved a hand at the silent street and the inn.

Dervoron rode forward another two or three paces and peered at the hostelry.

Ironclad oil lamps swung on hooks flanking the stout front door casting shadows that flickered and slid along the whitewashed walls. A wooden sign also swung, creaking lightly in the breeze, under a frowning brow of thick thatch. A row of shuttered dormer windows pierced the roof. Light was leaking around the joins in those shutters and this building, at least, had a column of smoke rising from its chimneys.

Earnulf dismounted and the Gondorian joined him on the cobbles.

"I hope the villagers are sheltering in the inn, Captain."

Earnulf nodded gravely at the man.

"Would you take your men and scout the village? We need to see what incident has scared these people, or perhaps there is some present danger."

Dervoron nodded and then turned and gathered his three men to his side, after a swift briefing they split up and vanished into the ever darkening and still eerily silent night

"Meet me back here," Earnulf called after them, "I will go and see if I can raise aught from the inn. Cover me, Esgarth."

Earnulf strode, with a confidence he did not feel, into the revealing circle of light cast by the lamps, quickly reaching the massive oak door. He knocked loudly shattering the brittle silence.

From inside he could hear a sudden frightened shriek from a very young child, quickly muffled and he had the impression of many people moving with caution. There was a muffled thump.

"Who is there?" The voice was female. "Go away, the inn is closed."

"Mistress, it is Earnulf, Captain of one of King Elfwine's éoreds. Has there been trouble here? Can I help?"

Something like a sob sounded on the other side of the door. Earnulf could hear an intense, low voiced, conversation happening and then the sound of footsteps retreating. He sighed.

"Mistress?"

"Captain." Esgarth's beckoning voice drew Earnulf out from the porch and into the light of the lamps again.

One of the dormer windows was reluctantly pushed open and a woman's face revealed. Her hair, backlit by the light in the attic room, was gilded to a halo of wisps.

"The hospitality of your house is somewhat lacking, Mistress." Earnulf tried for a light tone. "We are at your service, can we be of assistance? Where are your men folk?"

"He is as Rohirric as he sounded, mother." The young woman ignored his upturned face and turned back into the room, to be joined by an older matron at the dormer. "There are others of his éored, there see, and there," she pointed. Earnulf waited patiently, signalling Esgarth and one other to draw close. The old lady peered short-sightedly at them and then muttered something at the girl.

"Is that your camp yonder then, Captain?"

The girl indicated the plateau with an arm; Earnulf followed her arm and then spotted Dervoron trotting into the space before the inn. The sergeant shook his head, and Earnulf gave him a brief nod and then turned back to the young woman.

"That is the camp of King Elessar, King of Gondor, mistress. I have had the honour of escorting him."

"And I am the Queen of the Golden Wood,” she snapped. “I have no time for foolishness, Captain." She started to pull the shutter to.

"Madam, he speaks the truth." Dervoron strode into the light, the white tree on his tabard shining in the orange light. "Let us aid you. Will you not tell us what ails this hamlet?"

The young woman looked at Dervoron, astonished. More low-voiced conversation took place between mother and daughter, and then both vanished from the window.

Shortly Earnulf could hear the sound of heavy pieces of furniture being moved away from the inside of the door. Finally, several large bolts were pulled and the door inched open. The girl with the golden hair slipped out warily. Earnulf judged the top of her head would probably just reach his shoulder but she carried herself with all the hauteur of Gondor's queen.

“Oda Thordisdotter,” she introduced herself.

She examined Earnulf, flicked her eye over his men.

“Earnulf Dernulfson,” Earnulf replied politely.

The young woman held the door open and Earnulf ducked under the door lintel to enter the crowded interior of the inn.

00000

Gimli watched as Radagast greeted Legolas with a mild sort of pleasure.

“Legolas, ah, good of you to come. I have need of your skill with trees. Now here…”

The wizard turned as if to stride off deeper into the wood.

“Radagast, hold a moment.” Legolas voice was filled with affectionate chagrin, “Gladly will I help you, but first let me introduce you to my companions.” He waved a graceful arm that took in both Gimli and Ascallon.

Gimli straightened himself a little in preparation for being polite to the wizard. However with an apologetic look at his friend Legolas led the wizard first to greet Ascallon where she grazed a few paces off. Radagast turned all of his attention on the white mare’s flicking ears; Ascallon returned his regard by bunting him gently in his brown-robed middle.

Gimli, feeling slighted, looked to the heavens for what dole of patience they might grant him. He found, somewhat to his discomfort, that he was used to the respect accorded him by his people. Humbleness was starting to chafe like an ill-fitting hauberk.

Legolas moved up beside him and dropped a comradely hand to his shoulder. His glance was apology and plea all in one, and the ire constricting Gimli’s chest ran out of him like water from a jug.

Finally the wizard turned and sought round the clearing for Legolas, his distracted gaze finally finding them as they waited his pleasure. His gaze narrowed as he rested it on the dwarf, until Gimli felt he was at the end of a glowing poker. Then the wizard huffed a little in his beard and stepped closer.

Gimli looked back impassively, knowing very well that he was seeing only the surface of this Istar, the homespun masking power granted by the Valar themselves. The wizard’s staff had begun to glow illuminating the clearing with an aquatic green light.

Gimli bowed, conceding nothing. “Gimli, Gloin’s son.”

“Hmm, yes. Radagast at your service, master dwarf, somewhat more than my name, as are you. Ascallon speaks well of you.” Radagast smiled, and his face was transformed from imposing to genial, all in a moment. “Hah, a new thing in Middle-earth even in these late days, that a dwarf and a horse should agree.”

Ascallon whinnied a comment at the wizard’s back.

“You have a taste for strange company, it seems, Gloin’s son.” The wizard turned his canny gaze on Legolas.

“I try to be a civilizing influence.” Gimli remarked, aiming his comment at his friend.

The wizard laughed out loud. “Another wonder for this age, a Wood Elf civilised by the axe of a dwarf. How is it going?”

“Slowly.” Gimli retorted.

Legolas tossed his head and stalked away to whisper in Ascallon’s ear. The dwarf and the wizard shared a conspiratorial grin.

The wizard pointed to an up-thrust rock that lumped its way between two gnarled trees. Part of the light from his staff separated then drifted across the clearing like thistledown to settle on the boulder’s highest point, about an arm’s height above Gimli’s head.

“Would you tarry here for a short while, my good Gimli? I would like to show Legolas something deeper in the wood. Ascallon would feel better if she had company.”

“Then it would be churlish for me to refuse, wizard. I will wait.”

The pair made their way out of the clearing and Gimli walked over to the nook formed by the rock and settled his back against the comfort of stone. After he won a small battle of wills with Ascallon, over whether the horse was going to keep him company by standing in his lap, he removed his battle-axe from his back and found a whetstone about his person.

Deep in the tangle of trees Radagast perched on a branch, one lower than the elf, and interrogated him.

“Do you agree then, Legolas? There is wrongness about this blight. No disease would be described a boon but this seems more fell. Do you feel this?

Legolas landed lightly beside the wizard, holding a twig and a couple of yellowed leaves. He lifted a quizzical brow at the wizard and then raised the leaves to his nose and inhaled deeply - met Radagast’s steely gaze and then took an assessing audit of the surrounding oaks. He picked his way past the wizard then leaned against the main bole of the tree and closed his eyes.

“The trees are uncomfortable, aye, Radagast, but this blight poses no real danger to these mature trees. The saplings maybe.”

Legolas opened his eyes again and peered at the forest floor, then dropped out of the canopy to investigate the health of a young tree waiting hopefully in its parent’s shade.

Radagast followed him, rather more slowly, disturbing the fragrant leaf litter of the forest floor as he hit the ground. Legolas had his ear pressed to the young oak’s trunk.

“And if I told you that a very similar blight has recently felled trees near my home, Rhosgobel, aye, hard on the eves of Eryn Lasgalen. If I told you that leaf fall has come a day earlier, each year for the last decade so that laer is barely past when the trees turn golden. If I tell you that echuir arrives similarly later, by day, by year, would you then increase your concern?” Legolas looked at the mottled leaves in his hands.

“Have you spoken of this with my father?”

Radagast shrugged. “His own power is more than adequate to save all but the fringes of his demesne. I doubt he notices the seasonal creep. But I do.”

Above their heads, above the trees, Squawk and Peep cried mournfully as they rode the day’s last thermals.

Legolas gasped.

Radagast leaned on his staff and examined him, Legolas waved a dismissive hand.

“I am so open, for the trees, master. Forgive me.” He shut his eyes and tugged his control about him like the ragged ends of a worn cloak.

“Are you on your way to the havens then, Legolas? Is the calling the reason for your timely arrival?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nay, I will not sail yet. The river-daughter’s gift was given with barbs for my flesh, that is all.” The elf looked embarrassed to have been caught in weakness.

Radagast’s lips thinned and he looked as if he would speak and then, instead, he turned and started walking briskly back to the edge of the forest.

“Come, Legolas, we have left your good friends long enough and I would take counsel with Aragorn.”

They quickly reached the tree line, and then Legolas surged ahead of the wizard as if eager to be in Gimli’s solid company again. The dwarf clambered to his feet as he saw them breasting the trees, and Peep and Squawk fluttered into the same space, screaming at each other.

Gimli saw his friend’s already pale features go chalky and the elf faltered, again.

“Enough of this,” said the wizard.

 Radagast’s staff glowed and the wizard made a pinching motion with his fingers. The gulls called once more then arrowed off to the south.

Legolas dropped to one knee in a movement so graceless it was as if a string had been cut. Radagast stooped over him and placed one splayed hand on the bowed golden head, bending all his attention onto the elf.

The wizard suddenly became very still as the keen edge of Gimli’s axe rested, as gently as a kiss, on the soft skin of his neck.

“What do you think you would be doing to my friend now, master Radagast?”

Gimli’s voice vibrated with barely contained outrage. A thin trickle of red ran down the wizard’s neck from where the weight of the axe split his skin. Gimli felt a grim satisfaction at the sight.

Radagast slid his eyes sideways to engage those of the furious dwarf, “Let us let Legolas judge me, Gimli.”

With excruciating care the wizard raised his hand from the elf’s blond hair.

Legolas steadied himself with a hand to the turf - then rose to his feet with all of his usual fluid grace.

He turned to see the tableaux behind him and his eyes widened in alarm.

“Gimli” he said very softly. “Gimli, I am well. Please friend, I promise. Radagast is as much my friend as you are. He means me no harm.”

Gimli eased the pressure on the axe and searched Legolas’ face. The wizard also stood and took a prudent step to the side, dabbing at his neck with his hand.

“Look to your song, Legolas.” The wizard’s voice was encouraging, “I think I have given you some time.”

The elf seemed to go away behind his brilliant eyes, and then came back to the glade. The look of radiant joy that transfigured his face was simply too much for the dwarf to bear; he turned his own head away blinking back tears.

“Radagast, thank you.” Legolas stepped forward and touched the wizard on the arm.

 Gimli gathered himself enough to walk away, towards the rock, sheathing his axe and stooping to gather his tools into their oilskin. He felt lower than a mushroom and about as worthy.

“Gimli?” Legolas voice came from over his shoulder. The dwarf refused to turn.

“Gimli, we are going to Aragorn’s camp now. Would you ride?”

Horse breath blew damply, if sweetly, into his ear, ruffling his hair. Gimli straightened and met Ascallon’s liquid eye. Nothing could have persuaded him to meet Legolas’.

He reached up for his friend’s hand and swung; in a move so practised it was automatic, into his riding position behind the elf. He said nothing, and Legolas, merciful at last, allowed it.

TBC

Rose Sared

Beta by the most efficient Theresa Green, thanks. Do go read her original fic in progress on fiction net – In Character – it is really good! Rose

Evensong 10

“Apart from the women and children, the inn was defended only by greybeards and striplings, Sire.”

Aragorn’s intent and silent regard made Earnulf want to report in a way that would make his old Captain proud. He shifted the position of his helmet a little; it felt ungainly under his arm.

He tried to summon the words that would make the scene he had witnessed in the village inn clear to his listener, but his attention was being compelled by the powerful interest of the man sitting in front of him, wiping the words from his tongue. He swallowed.

Aragorn blinked and turned to the side, casting around his tent for second before locating the water jug on his campaign chest. He waved at Earnulf.

“Please, be at ease Captain, put that helmet down. Drink lad, and collect your thoughts.  There is no present threat?”

Aragorn’s regard caught Earnulf again and the young man froze, and then shook his head.

Aragorn subsided again.

“Dervoron has posted sentries, Sire, and remains down in the village with my men. I came to report and to ask you to send some more soldiers and healers, if you will.There are five men of the village who lay injured, one is the brother of the innkeep’s daughter I spoke of, Oda.”

Aragorn looked at the jug; Earnulf filled a beaker and gulped, his throat felt as if it was lined with sand. Aragorn pointed to a folding camp chair, which Earnulf eyed warily before lowering himself into it. It creaked but held his weight. Aragorn’s eye twinkled a little and a faint smile lit his face, and then he leaned forward.

“Tell me the rest of the tale, Captain. What woe has befallen Crossbourne and taken the men from the village?”

0000

Oda followed Earnulf into the taproom. Esgarth slipped in behind them. Earnulf was greeted by a line of pitchforks and mattocks wielded by an unconvincing but determined straggle of elderly men and weedy boys. The urchin nearest him wobbled as the weight of the mallet he had swung up threatened to overtop him.

“Nay, he is friend!” Oda spoke firmly, and Earnulf put his hand to the hammerhead to steady it, and then settled the weapon more firmly into the boy’s grasp.

“There, lad, you have done bravely.”

Earnulf flicked his professional gaze around the crowded room. A murmur of fear and discontent was swelling after the frozen silence that had held sway. One child grizzled, two more started up in sympathy in different parts of the room. People were packed in like kine , women and grandmothers sheltering children of all ages. A fire burned strongly in the grate, adding to the close fug. Strained and weary faces turned towards the soldiers like flowers to the sun.

“Will you reassure them, Captain?” Oda waved her hands, indicating the crowd and the rising level of noise.

Earnulf cleared his throat and the room fell silent but for the complaint of the very young.

“People of Crossbourne. I represent King Elfwine and my eored is with me, guarding the inn as I speak. King Elessar, of Gondor, camps even now on the cliff-top yonder. He has the royal guard with him, we will protect you.” A rumble of relief swept the crowd.

“Where were you over the last sennight, then? To protect us from those monsters?” A woman’s shrill complaint rose over the general noise. “Our men, farmers all, have had to do your job. Where were you when my Gareth was felled?”

The complainer stepped sideways so that Earnulf could see a line of wounded lying like so many logs in front of the hearth. Earnulf moved forward to see and Oda restrained him with one hand on his arm.

“Peace, Haldis. Should we spurn help now it has arrived? Save your breath for your man. He will live where others have not. Is it safe for these to return to their homes for the night, Captain? Will your forces protect us?”

“Gladly, but from what are we guarding you? My men can find no peril threatening this eve?”

A collective in drawing of breath ended in silence, Earnulf found himself the centre of what felt like a hundred dark eyes.

“Orcs.” Oda stated ominously into the quiet. The fretful baby started up again, and the whole village seemed to nod in unison, then turn to packing up. Leaving Earnulf gaping at the woman beside him in disbelief.

“Orcs, madam. Are you sure? There have been no orcs sighted in Rohan for eighty years.”

Oda simply looked at him, and then turned and led him through the crowded room and out into the stable yard. She collected a torch from the wall and moved over to the far side. There, by the dung heap, lay a de-capitated corpse. Earnulf had never seen an orc before, but there was not much doubt that this used to be one.

Oda spoke into his stunned silence. “My brother, Turpin, whose wits are not great but is as brave as a bull, killed this with a scythe and then dragged it back here before he succumbed to his wounds. He lies yonder, with some of the others who saw it and then went out after them.” Oda waved at the inn.

0000

In the royal tent Earnulf wrenched his eyes from his fists that had knotted themselves together on his lap, and managed to meet the king’s appalled expression. Steeling himself he continued.

“Oda spoke of a great disturbance in the dead of the night, ten days ago. All the village dogs went wild, baying and calling and the farm animals were crying and stampeding in the fields and byres. The farmers ventured out, with pitchforks and such back up as could be mustered, but it was not until morning that the tracks were found. Some hard-shod company had travelled down the bank of the Snowbourne, raiding and butchering stock as they went, but never pausing, the track led arrow straight towards Meduseld, and the mountains.”

Earnulf gazed into the flame that danced in Aragorn’s oil-lamp, then looked again to the king.

“Last night they returned. This time they moved slower. They were driving some great creatures in the darkest part of the night; the women could hear bestial shouts and the sound of whips. The men of Crossbourne secured their families and then rode out to defend their farms and their lives with what weapons they could cobble together. It seems that the party did no more than brush past them as if they were annoying insects. The orcs drove their charges northwest, swatting aside all that sought to oppose them. In the morning the villagers found the ground fouled and churned, littered with the bones of beasts that must have been eaten raw, and whilst travelling.They found these also, as well as the corpse Turpin brought back.” Earnulf pulled a linen bound package from his back and fished two objects out of it.

Aragorn took them and turned them over in his hands, his face reflecting his extreme disquiet. The king looked at a broken iron-bound shoe and the curved and notched end of a crude blade.

“Yrch!” he spat the Silvan word with loathing.

Aragorn dropped the things on the floor, unconsciously wiping his hands on his thighs, as if their very presence defiled him. Then he sprang to his feet and started pacing furiously. Earnulf also rose politely, and then subsided as the king waved him back into his chair with barely concealed irritation.

“Duilin!”

The king’s guard stuck his head and most of his body into the tent, weapon loosened already and scanning for threat, as if Earnulf may have run mad and threatened his liege. Aragorn sighed and waved the man into a remotely easier stance in a sequence that was obviously practiced for both of them.

“Duilin, take six men and reinforce Dervoron’s positions around Crossbourne, warn the men that orcs have been sighted in the area. Oh, and Duilin,” the guard turned back to his king. “Send Sarthor, the healer, and his helpers down to the village. Let them earn their keep for a change.”

“Aye, Sire, it shall be so.” Duilin seemed completely unfazed by the nature of the king’s orders. Earnulf wished, fleetingly, for such a control over his imagination.

Aragorn turned back to Earnulf. “The men of the village rode after them today, and have yet to return?”

“They hoped to retrieve the best part of their herds, Sire.”

“Foolishness,” snapped the king, rubbing his hand over his head. “Earnulf, did you spy the lords Legolas or Gimli in the camp when you rode up?”

Earnulf opened his mouth to reply, only to gape as the elf slipped into the tent silently, as if the mention of his name had called him up.

“Aragorn?” Legolas’ soft query elicited a satisfying jump from his friend the king, who turned and glared at him. Aragorn pointed at the discarded lumps of iron on the floor.

“Orcs, Legolas. Can you believe it? After all this time our old enemy dares to break the peace. Look.”

Now it was the elf’s turn to look stunned. He moved further into the tent and poked at the broken bits with the toe of his shoe. “Where?”

“Under our very noses.”

Aragorn swept Anduril off its stand and buckled the sword on. Then he went to the door flap and pushed his way out. The elf followed and Earnulf was left in the deserted tent. He prised himself out of the chair and re-wrapped the orc rubbish, before following his commander outside.

0000

The grey wash of dawn had barely silvered the Snowbourne as the elf, with the dwarf riding pillion as ever, the wizard and the king let their horses pick their careful way down the same cart track Earnulf had ridden so cheerfully last evening. It felt as if a whole age of men had passed in the night, so different was the feeling of the day.

Earnulf was happy to see that the farmhouses they passed on the way to Crossbourne had smoke rising from their chimneys. Farm folk rose early and milch cows were already lowing at the farm gates, ready to be milked.

Earnulf nodded to his men as he passed those stationed as sentries - he knew more were strung around the village in a great arc.

The elf raised himself slightly to see something further down stream. “Dervoron returns, Aragorn, escorting a party of men and beasts.”

The king grunted as if it still felt it a personal affront that orcs had trespassed on these lands.

“Earnulf,” Aragorn called the Captain to his side. “ Make sure these men are rotated each four hours during daylight. I want no tired soldiers tonight guarding these folk and their animals.”

Earnulf saluted and cantered off to speak to Esgarth.

Aragorn’s party rode through the waking village. A few people emerged into the street and one young man started a cheer that ran raggedly up the street for the king.

“Blessings on you.” A young woman waved from her doorway and threw a scatter of flowers at the party.

Aragorn nodded at her, smiling gravely but he did not stop, trotting through the village and out on to the greenway that bordered the river, beside the wharf that held the ferry.

Aragorn indicated the untouched series of tracks leading to and from the south.

“Shall we?”

The four of them rode alongside the obvious trail. The soil was furrowed and muddied, as if heavy weights had been dragged up the valley.

Aragorn dismounted and handed his horse into the care of his guards. Radagast did likewise whilst Legolas swung Gimli down and then spoke to Ascallon. The white horse flicked an ear at the elf and wandered off after the other two horses.

“Legolas.” Radagast had crossed the mud, and after squinting up and down the river for a moment was scrambling up the bank to examine the willows. ”Come here will you?”

Legolas shared a wry look with Aragorn and then ran lightly over to see what the wizard wanted.

Aragorn stooped and then picked a set of prints and followed them for some distance; Gimli followed him and then stopped a little way back from where Aragorn finished his tracking.

Aragorn raised his voice a little so the dwarf would hear. “Some great beast passed this way, two legged - see, but massive.”

Aragorn stooped lower then turned his face away from the soil, his nose wrinkling. “Phaugh, whatever it is it fouls the very earth it walks on.”

The king stood again, mostly to remove his nose to a more respectable distance from the stinking ground, and then looked around for confirmation of his findings from the dwarf, Aragorn’ eyes widened in concern.

Gimli stood on the track behind him, unmoving, so still he could have been a carved image, a god of nature perhaps. His face was a waxen mask of distress, and Aragorn saw a great shudder shake his sturdy frame.

“Gimli?”

Gimli stirred and looked at the king out of eyes that were dark pits. “Give me a moment, lad.”

The dwarf turned away from the river like a sleepwalker, and took three careful steps onto the unsullied grass that faced the green fields.

Aragorn moved quickly to his side, raising an urgent hand as he went to beckon Legolas over.

“What can you tell me?” Aragorn asked, as Gimli squared his shoulders and turned towards him, his feelings no longer quite so stark on his face.

Legolas arrived at their side, exchanged a questioning look with Aragorn, and then looked for an answer to his friend, concern filling his expression.

Gimli looked at the elf, then jerked his head at the tracks.

“You will know, Legolas. Inhale, what does that smell say to you?”

Legolas sniffed, and then stared at the churned ground, astonished.

“Cave trolls?’

Gimli nodded, grim.

“Aye, I am not likely to forget that stench in this life.” He shuddered again and once more turned his gaze away from the broken earth to look over the clean farmland. “The orcs went to fetch cave trolls, Aragorn, but why? That is the question, why?”

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong 11

Narvi left the mountainside and entered the passageways, carrying with her a fresh-cut bundle of branches. The paths she walked were first carved when the world was shaped; her chisel had refined the twisting vents and echoing chambers over the long centuries. Valda guided her hand in this work, Valda and her own craft sense.

Narvi had been fortifying their hideout for three thousand years – labyrinth hardly did the complex knot of tunnels and dead ends justice. Over millennia Narvi cut her jokes, her false starts and her boredom into the bones of her home.

Some passages were dwarf-sized and long, ending after a backbreaking distance in pitfalls or dead ends. Some started large then narrowed; some did the reverse. The most decorated were likely to end in a statue or a sheer view down the mountain. The plainest led variously to traps, dead-ends, or perhaps a storeroom or, one, to the workroom.

None were marked; Narvi knew all of the secrets of Methedras and the caves that tunnelled it. Her life, that she lived before she started this work, was a faint band of brightness lost so far back in time that she wondered sometimes if it was just another dream sent by the ring.

Narvi, needing no light, traced the passages of her memory back from the green forests of the mountainside to his side. Celebrimbor only moved from his cell-like rest room to the dawn cave, or the workshop. Narvi served him for all else – without her he would not exist, without him nor would she.

He was working. The tap, tap of his hammer as constant as rain. The workroom, open to the west, was bitterly cold, windblown specks of snow swirling in spirals by the cave mouth. He never noticed, his attention only on the intricate construction that framed Narvi’s carefully shaped entrance to the inner chambers. His voice sounded as sharp and as clear as the sun seen through green ice as he sang his magic into the mithril. Mithril she had mined and refined for him before he woke, after the lesser enemy was gone. Valda had promised, Valda had delivered. Valda warded. While he worked he remained whole, Valar bless.

Narvi strewed most of the pine branches on the floor knowing the spicy smell pleased him, and then, fanciful, she tucked a couple into the pipes and fastenings that anchored the great construction to the cavern wall.

Celebrimbor glanced at her and then at the spiky branches. She caught the bright glitter of his eye, amusement lightened his song.

Narvi huffed out a breath, turned away, and then stiffened as Valda warned her.

His song cut off, shockingly mid-note.

The web of life that sustained them pulsed, bent, shouted out that invaders had come.

A great blow echoed and re-echoed through the caverns. Doom!

Fine dust sifted silently into their cavern from the roof.

“Master?” Narvi’s little used voice sounded weak to her own ears.

“I just need to finish the mouthpiece, old friend. Then the Valar will release us.” The elf fixed her in his obsessed gaze. “Can we hold?”

“How do they know we are here?” Narvi ran her hand down the curving pipe to where he was standing, listening, and intent.

Celebrimbor shut his eyes. “They are called. The great enemy is not powerless, he feels me working, knows my intent. Stalks me on the path of dreams. Such a little chink in the wall the Valar set him behind, but when he reaches through, all the evil in the world comes to him and obeys his sending.”

The elf took up his hammer again and turned from the dwarf. “We must hold, Narvi. Just until I finish the mouthpiece.”

Doom, rang through the caverns, doom, doom, doom.

Valda exerted her power. Through Narvi it robbed from the living to keep out the forces of evil. Elves and the other magical beings still living in Middle-earth gasped and felt diminished; even men felt the hair on their necks lifting, as if ghosts walked on their graves.

Celebrimbor swayed and his skin took on the grey look of death. Then he straightened, brightened, his uncanny song resumed, as did his delicate shaping of the end of evil.

00000

Fangorn the ent, raging at the bottom of a pit-trap, finally got to the end of the names he could call the orcs and other less than savoury beasts that had trailed in ones and twos past his prison to vanish into his woods, called to assault Methedras.

“…Burárum,” he rumbled.

The glade of dark-hearted beech trees that had allowed the pit to be dug by the selfsame burárum, snickered, branches twisting in the evening light. Tiger-striped wasps swarmed around the tree trunks, drinking the honeydew the beeches exuded, properly the food of forest birds, conspicuous here by their absence.

Fangorn stilled as the reaching tendrils of Narvi’s need siphoned the life force of the great forest. Most of the wasps dropped to the earth, stone dead.

The black glade hissed, leaves rubbing angrily as the effect passed. Anger tightened the air and above ground an orc gave a frightened squeal, suddenly cut off.

The roots of the tainted grove twisted and writhed around the sides of the pit, frustrating Fangorn’s efforts at pulling the sides down. The ent rocked back on his heels and glared out and up. The suck-swish sound of the wind in the leaves tormented him.

The crowns of the dark trees, framed by the lip of his prison, leered at him.

“Time and beyond for weeding,” snarled  Fangorn.” By root and branch, I must compose myself and consider, think how to cut out this rotten wood. Culling is the task of the shepherd and it is overdue.”

Slow to anger but boiling now with impatience the ent turned his mind to his task, recalling the secret names of the trees in his field of view.

00000

Dervoron saluted his king as he shepherded his motley crew and their lowing charges. The gusting wind drove the smell of cattle ahead of him.

Several of the men of Crossbourne, most sporting crudely bound wounds, drove the animals.

Dervoron’s soldiers rode at the rear, convincing the baulky animals to keep moving. The villagers’ faces looked haunted, the eyes that flicked up to see the royal party dark and red-rimmed,  one or two touched a knuckle to a forehead. Mostly they concentrated on keeping the beasts in line.

Women appeared as if by magic, each man was quickly escorted by exclaiming groups of family. Others looked in vain at the party, and then craned to see if there was more coming. The numbers were small enough that it soon became obvious that none followed.

Oda’s mother threw her apron over her face and started wailing. Soon others followed, relatives and friends hanging off one another in grief-stricken groups.

Aragorn raised a beckoning arm to Dervoron and his men. Dervoron leaned down and spoke a word or two to one of the last of the village drovers, and then trotted his weary horse to his king’s side. Dervoron’s face looked grim, the six men he commanded disentangled themselves from the cattle and formed up behind their sergeant.

Aragorn nodded at the village. “This was all you found?”

Dervoron nodded once. “The orcs captured and ran off with at least eight villagers, Sire. They had butchered twenty or so of the cattle when the farmers caught up with them and attacked. The orcs were in a hurry, it seems, Valar be praised.  The great beasts they were driving and most of the company had crossed the river, otherwise I think I would have bought none of the villagers back. The orcs scooped up those that fell, or were in their way, grabbed the butchered meat and fled into the night.”

Aragorn straightened in the saddle. “We must stop this. Dervoron, stand down your men and get some rest but first send Duilin and Earnulf to me.” Aragorn turned and looked at his companions.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, it is time that I took control of events.”

00000

It took until late afternoon to shift Aragorn’s camp off the plateau to the ferry and hence across the Snowbourne.

The king sent a small group of three scouts away on the first crossing, with a mission to track the orcs. Then he briefed Earnulf on the force to be left guarding Crossbourne, sent messengers to Edoras to inform king Elfwine of his and the orcs’ actions and chivvied Duilin into paying Gondorian gold for the soldiers’ billets in the village and provisions for the group that was going on to Fangorn.

Eventually, Legolas found him upstairs at the inn in the village, doing what he could to help Sarthor with the remaining wounded.

“Aragorn?”

The elf leaned in the doorway. Oda, her mother and the king exchanged glances over her brother’s fever-bothered body.

Aragorn looked at the elf.

“Have you finished here?” Legolas’ soft voice held a hint of steel.

Oda’s mother made a shooing motion to the king, despite Oda’s dismayed clutch at the woman’s arm. Oda twisted her brow in mortification; her mother glanced at her then shrugged her shoulders at Aragorn.

“I can look after my boy, have been for years, and will be for more. Thank you, your royalness, whatever; he is a mite easier now. Off you go.”

She managed a watery smile for the king, the smile of a woman who had seen most of life come and go through her taproom. She pushed Oda. “You can go downstairs and help as well. The soldiers will want their ale, and the villagers. Go.”

The king smiled at the woman, acknowledging her bravery, and waved Oda out of the room in front of him. He joined Legolas on the landing.

The elf eyed his friend. “You look weary. Gimli was right.”

Aragorn cocked an eyebrow at the elf.

“He said he saw you send Duilin away on an errand at noon meal, then left yours when the healer called you here. It is nigh on sunset, Aragorn.”

Aragorn leaned on the banister rail to examine the crowd gathering in the tavern, and then started down the stairs, picking up his bodyguard as a shadow on the way. He started to make his way over to the far wall where Gimli was ensconced in a booth by the fire, nursing a tankard of ale, the remains of a hearty meal on the table in front of him.

The elf caught Aragorn’s arm, when they were about half way across the crowded room.

“Would you talk to Gimli, Aragorn? About this morning. He will not tell me what ails him and is muttering about returning to Aglarond. I will go and bespeak a meal for you.”

The elf darted away in the direction of the kitchen and was quickly lost behind Earnulf’s impressive bulk.

Aragorn looked at the young Rohirrim. “Go get yourself an ale, lad. Keep your boys company, over there.” The king pointed at a group of Earnulf’s off-duty soldiers. “ Or talk to Oda and see if the villagers feels they will be able to manage with the protection I have planned.” The king waved at the bar.

Earnulf scanned the room and then nodded at Aragorn, departing towards the bar as directed but clearly still feeling he was on duty.

Aragorn slid into the booth beside Gimli.

A harried barmaid slid a tankard in front of the king before he even got himself settled. The dwarf eyed it and then lifted his own. Aragorn had the feeling he was hiding behind the ale.

“Legolas is worried about you,” said Aragorn. The king picked up a discarded bread roll and took a bite, his appetite reminding him of his missed meal. “Care to tell me what is wrong.”

“The elf worries for Arda,” grumbled Gimli. “ Not ten minutes hence he was worried about you.”

Aragorn held the dwarf’s eye, not letting him hide in gruffness. Gimli sighed and placed his tankard on the table with exaggerated care.

“I will let you judge me, Aragorn. This morning, I felt it all again, on the riverbank. The smell threw me straight back ten years. I do not want to face cave trolls again, Aragorn. Have I been called to this task only to find I have turned coward in my dotage?”

Aragorn laughed at him, completely unsympathetic. Gimli stared at the king, startled at his evident mirth, and then let his lip curl up a little.

Aragorn shook his head. “Where there are cave trolls there must be caves, my friend. I, we, will need you. Legolas and Radagast will be in their element in the forest, but we will need you before the end. I can feel it.”

Gimli lifted his tankard in two hands, and then paused looking into its brown depths as if truth might surface there.

“Then I suppose I will not go back to Aglarond, then, just yet. But I hear them in my dreams, Aragorn. The thud of their foul feet coming for me in my sleep.”

“We all have our demons, Gimli. I doubt you think the sea makes a coward of Legolas, yet he is vulnerable. I fear my end, and dream of Arwen bereft until I can scarce face her at breakfast. But still you keep me company, and you honour no cowards. Fear makes not a coward, which you know well enough; actions are what count.”

Gimli looked long into Aragorn’s face, and then took a drink of his ale.

“We start for Fangorn forest tomorrow?”

“First light,” said Aragorn, smiling up at Oda as she loaded the table with savoury smelling plates.

“Radagast claims he can follow the disturbances to Arda’s magic even through Fangorn’s twisted heart.” Aragorn speared a piece of meat and chewed, watching Earnulf as he courteously relieved Oda of the empty tray and held open the kitchen door for her. He glanced at the dwarf, who met his twinkle with a roll of his eyes, and a final sup of his drink.

“Eat, or the blond nursemaid will fret.” Gimli sat back on his chair and grinned at the king.

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

Aragorn, none the less, bent to his meal.

TBC

Rose Sared

Beta by the ever patient Theresa, sorry for the delay,  the gremlin that sits on the line between Theresa and me ate the Beta again!

Evensong 12

Scanned by a cruising hawk, Fangorn’s forest canopy billowed in seamless profusion, the only break in the tossing olive-green a groove cut by the Entwash. The hawk skated down the icy slipways of air, head turning, looking for an unwary pigeon, a blackbird seduced by rage at a rival - a sparrow too far from its flock.

A disturbance caught its attention, the trees moving against the wind-driven pattern, but no bird started, panicked, into the sky and the hawk flew on, angling its flight to be near the lifting air that spiralled off the mountains, and then it soared, lazy, on the downhill of wind that carried the hunter far without effort.

The forest margin came into view. The hawk floated on the edge on a thermal, intent, the camp of men on the very eaves of the forest deserving of his time.

0000

In a trampled circle of grass Earnulf, fighting on foot and encumbered by unfamiliar weapons and clumsy armour, found himself very tired of being cast as the orc.

Sweat trickled from under the ill-fitting helmet into his eyes; it stung.

He shook his head and tried to keep his tormentor in view. His opponent was much slighter, un-armoured and, by the Valar, older. He should be at Earnulf’s mercy.

Earnulf had taken note of Duilin’s sour expression at the beginning of this bout. The king’s bodyguard stood as close to his charge as he could without actually being in the demonstration ring with him.

Earnulf had thought that he would have to be careful to not hurt the King of Gondor. Now irritation was turning to actual red anger as Aragorn danced around him, always out of reach. The rider lifted the heavy hooked blade Gimli had cast for this demonstration - it tugged at his balance, and he lunged forward, finally spotting an opening.

Aragorn swayed away, as fluid as air, again.

Ignoring Earnulf’s yell of rage, the king used the flat of Anduril to add momentum to Earnulf’s clumsy charge, swept the legs out from under him and at the same time caught him in his middle with what felt like a knee.

Earnulf cartwheeled through the air, the circle of watchers scattering to avoid his flight. In the strange arrested motion of falling Earnulf glimpsed a hawk hanging silhouetted against the clouds marching across the sky, and then the rich earth of the plains came up to meet him with a force that knocked any remaining wind out of his lungs. Earnulf tasted the iron of blood in his mouth and then felt the now familiar prick of Anduril as Aragorn pointed variously to his kidneys, his neck, and his ribcage. Last time it had been his chest, his belly and his throat.

“Here, here or here.” Aragorn sounded mildly short of breath. “Orc armour was always weak at the joins.”

Earnulf wondered if air would ever flow back into his lungs. The thought of never leaving this comfortable mud appealed, as his diaphragm laboured his vision narrowed to a small circle. Oda beckoned behind his eyes, gentle and compliant, as he had never seen her in life. Finally his aching chest drew in a single huge breath and the racket of the day returned. He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he had shut

Aragorn was on one knee beside him, his expression slightly concerned.

Earnulf, mortified beyond expression, looked past the king and spotted a chortling group of his men watching from several paces off. Wind blew through the leaves on the massed ranks of trees framing them; it made a sound like distant, mocking, applause.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

Earnulf nodded, weakly. “Winded, Sire.”

Earnulf wheezed and Aragorn slid a sympathetic hand under his twisted breastplate. Earnulf felt the warmth of the king’s hand and his chest eased further, the intense pain fading.

“The best targets for arrows are here and here. “

 The lighter voice of the elf sounded behind Earnulf and Aragorn stood up, his face vanishing out of Earnulf’s field of view. The king’s worn and muddy boots stayed close by and Earnulf wasted just one moment on the fantasy of sweeping the king’s legs out from under him. The memory of Duilin’s obsessed face fortunately overcame his need for revenge.

Aragorn moved away and Earnulf, shaking his head, started to climb groggily to his feet. Legolas lent him a strong hand; Earnulf was astonished once more by the hidden power that the immortal held in his slight form. Earnulf pulled off the orc helm and started stripping the awkward armour from his body.

Legolas peered at his swollen lip. “Get that cleaned up, Earnulf, then come and join us.”

In the background Earnulf could hear Aragorn organising the remaining spectators into practice groups. Esgarth approached from behind the elf, looking far too cheerful for Earnulf’s comfort.

“Let me help you with that armour, Captain.”

Legolas ceded his place to Earnulf’s man, tucking his bow over his shoulder and striding off to join Aragorn.

Soon the armour lay in a pile at the captain’s feet. The smile faded from the sergeant’s face as his battered captain loomed over him, dabbing at his sore lip and swaying slightly. Earnulf handed the balding man the despised helmet and sword.

“Get kitted up, Sergeant.” Earnulf limped away towards the healer’s tent. “When I get back, you can be the orc.”

00000

Legolas joined Aragorn.

“You were hard on the lad.”

Aragorn took his eyes from the sparring men and eyed the elf. “It might keep him alive.”

Legolas looked at the king askance.

Aragorn sighed, waved his hand at Earnulf’s men, “They think he is invulnerable. With his size and the skills he learned from you, no one has taken him down for years.”

Aragorn turned abruptly and walked away from the fighting groups and nearer to the trees; with the ease of long practise he ignored Duilin’s stealthy shadowing of him. It hadn’t hurt for his bodyguard to see that the old dog still had a trick or two to his name.

Legolas walked with Aragorn, looking thoughtful. Aragorn stopped beside the beaten trail that was the path the orc-band had taken into the depths of Fangorn. The leaves of low growing shrubs and the trampled grass were blackened yet by their brutal passage.

Legolas cradled a broken branch in his hand as he looked into the forbidding tunnel of trees. No song welcomed him this time to the ancient forest. The active malice of the trees was clear as they mourned the violation. Radagast had vanished slipping between the dark trees and into the forest and was yet to return to Aragorn’s camp.

“Orcs, Legolas. Given any advantage they will slaughter these babes and innocents.” Aragorn waved back at the camp.

Legolas’ lip twitched. “They are seasoned troops, Aragorn. I think you do yours and Earnulf’s men disservice. Did we know so much the first time we faced orcs?”

“The bliss of ignorance. It is a wonder any of us survived.”

“Aye, but we hold Middle-earth, the orcs do not.” Legolas smiled at the king, moved away from the trail and leaned on the trunk of a tree that stood nodding to itself in the blustery wind. The elf closed his eyes, then looked round sharply.

“Someone approaches, the trees welcome him.”

Aragorn said, “Fangorn?”

The elf shook his head. “ I cannot say.”

00000

Quickbeam hurried, and that was no usual thing for an ent, even an ent as light-minded as he. The wizard had no difficulty keeping up, which, Quickbeam reflected, said more about wizards than was concealed in many a long tale.

Radagast’s staff suddenly shone brightly, a black branch that had been groping into their path drew back with the squeal of a nail wrenched from a plank.

“ The evil is so confident?”  Radagast made an tsking sound.

Quickbeam swayed and sang a restraint around the black-hearted grove, the saplings swayed away from him, creaking. The ent cast around briefly then spotted a half grown oak.

“Guard,” he sang, commanding.

Golden eyes opened just under the canopy, peering at the tree herder then resting on the wizard. The eyes blinked, and then turned their gaze on the renegade trees.

Quickbeam forged on, his slender body and supple arms weaving patterns like spells to open the way. Even the most quiet of trees loomed, conifers showered the travellers with needles, vines swayed, branches moved. The ancient forest was disturbed and aroused.

A herd of deer broke in front of them, fleeing for the forest margin. No other living thing did Radagast see, the inhabitants of the forest gone or hiding.

Groves full of chittering darkness came in ones and twos, then more often as they started to climb, negotiating the far-flung foothills of the vast, last mountain.

Both the wizard and the ent extended their powers, the air became so dark that Radagast could see the silver edge of his protective spell like a soap bubble, illuminating strange fungus’ that grew in profusion on the tortured wood.

The ent gasped. Silhouetted against the grey sky a remembered and treasured grove of rowan trees were being enveloped by strangling fleshy vines, only the shape of the trees visible under the green shroud.

“I cannot.” The ent warded the horror off with an arm cast over his eyes, “These are my friends. I cannot go further. They live yet, under that, that obscenity.”

Radagast lifted his staff and peered down the cliff face that dropped away from the ridge. A black mist shrouded the depths and repelled his enchanted light. The mountain at the head of the vale cast its solid shadow. Near its granite sides the trees diminished to shrubs as scree slopes of tumbled rock replaced the soil. A finger of congealed snow lay in the shade of a sheer face, pointing at the valley.

Quickbeam raised a silvery arm and indicated, “Treebeard is down there, somewhere.”

Radagast looked back at the ent, “We need the extra support Legolas can give us. He may be able to call many of these back from the dark. By elves in the distant past were they wakened. Only by an elf, failing Treebeard’s ancient authority, can we calm them.”

Radagast cast a shrewd look over the blighted forest then looked into the air above, turning in a full circle to take in the view.

Sunlight slipped between the moving clouds, dappling the forest that rolled away beneath them. Somehow the shafts all missed the shrouded valley at his feet.

Quickbeam moved nearer the afflicted rowan trees and started stripping the grasping vines from their branches, using violent, jerky movements.

Radagast took another look into the valley and then joined the Ent in his work. Where his staff passed the fleshy leaves curled into desiccated crisps, and the winding stems fell into powder, releasing Quickbeam’s friends from their suffocation.

Leaving the last of the uncovering to the ent, Radagast tracked the vine to the cliff top, and then sent a spell of destruction racing through the tangled lattice that groped up from the valley floor. Something like a heartened sigh lifted the air that blew from the vale.

“I must go and fetch Legolas. Will you stay here and watch, old friend?”

Quickbeam squeezed his shoulder with a hand that had many fingers. “For your assistance here I would wait a season, Aiwendil.”

Radagast harrumphed. “Nonsense, we should be back here by morning. If I can convince one of the feathered folk to fly here I will send you news.”

00000

Aragorn looked up from his lists - men, supplies, arms - as Gimli entered his tent.

The dwarf made eye contact with the king and bowed slightly, and then strode across the tent to help himself to a cup of ale. Aragorn was ever well supplied.

“Duilin said you had news for me?” The dwarf wiped a hand across his mouth and wandered amiably nearer to peer at the pile of scrolls littering Aragorn’s desk and battered old campaign trunk.

“Elfwine has sent reinforcements,” Aragorn held up a half unrolled scroll. “ They arrive at dawn. Telfaren brought the message pouch.”

”Telfaren,” Gimli exclaimed joyfully. “Where is the lad?” He peered around Aragorn’s tent as if the messenger might be conjured from under the king’s cot.

“I sent him to his meat. Would you join him?”

“Aye, he will have news of Gleowyn and the bairns.” Gimli grinned at the King, “Come with me, Aragorn. Leave all this for an eve. Gondor will not fall if you share a tale or two around the fire.”

“But..” Aragorn moved a list to one side to reveal three more.

“Come.” The dwarf grasped his sleeve and pulled him towards the door flap. “Why should the elf have all the fun this night, communing with Radagast and his trees. Let us share some fellowship.”

With a sigh the king allowed himself to be dragged.

00000

 The orcs,  driven by Elfwine’s approaching reinforcements and finding the camp in their way, attacked at the third hour before dawn.

TBC

Rose Sared

Warning! Violence and OC death in this chapter.

Evensong Ch 13

Gimli made a point of choosing a tent that was pitched on the outskirts of the camp, nearest the trees. Not only did its placement mean it would be convenient for the elf, encouraging him to visit so that he could be inveigled into conversation that would wile away the lonely hours of the night, but also it meant Gimli was a good long way from Aragorn’s solicitous care.

The dwarf did not enjoy being coddled, his mind still skipped away from the moment he had woken to find himself swathed in blankets and in his friends’ care.

This time he awoke to the dark of deep night, insect song and his own company. A horse called from the picket halfway around the camp. Reason enough for his waking; he needed little sleep even in his prime, now sleep was a reluctant guest easily dismissed.

He sat up, his shoulders reminding him that he had spent the previous day working the portable forge preparing the company’s arms for battle.

“That young smith of Aragorn’s is showing some promise,” he thought to himself, remembering a productive afternoon.

Gimli perched on the edge of his cot and blinked into the shadows, absently rubbing his right forearm to ease the ache. Leaf-dappled white light illuminated the canvas.

“Pah,” he exclaimed, just to break the night’s silence. He peered down at his lap. “My beard whitens and yearns to keep company with the moon; Tilion did ever love silver.” He yawned, but the action woke him further rather than inclining him to rest. He wriggled his horny toes back into his boots, and then stood, stretching carefully.

Moving to the end of his cot he put on his leather outerwear, stiff fingers easing as he found familiar buckles and straps. He picked up his axe in a move of pure unconscious habit, slotting it into the sheath at his back, and then pushed his way out of the door-flap to find himself bathed in the moon’s welcome. Three days past full, it  gave enough light to cast black shadows.

He listened, but heard no elf-song from the trees. The horses still sounded disturbed; another called, answered by one more. He could hear them stamping, moving in their hobbles. He looked up, a blaze of stars raced in the gaps between scurrying clouds.

He blew out an irritated breath. Time around the fire last eve had wetted his appetite for company. The storytelling had been outrageous but he had missed Legolas’ dry wit and pointed barbs. Everyone, and that included Aragorn, had treated him with far too much respect. Suddenly remembering his chagrin at Radagast’s complete lack of the same, he barked a laugh. He must be getting old; he was becoming querulous.

He turned and started walking towards the horse pickets, he could hear the animals milling around. Then one of the camp sentries shouted a challenge followed almost immediately by another.

A mortal scream rang out and the camp roused. The silence of the night was banished by raised voices as the soldiers woke and scrambled to meet whatever threat loomed.

The ringing sound of fighting came from the opposite side of the camp.

Gimli, axe already in hand, no longer aware of age or infirmity, ran towards the evil clang of metal on metal, brute squeals and grunts and the urgent commands of men.

00000

Legolas felt a bone deep weariness that was as foreign to him as mortality.

This was deep magic he was wielding, calling on his connections with the trees of the Greenwood of his youth and Ithilien of his maturity to mend that which was marred, calling to the honest heartwood of a shadowed forest. All he could feed the enchantment with was his innate strength.

His song faltered. In his own deepest heart he felt fraudulent, a warrior not an adept. His mending of Ithilien was a group affair; in that work he was only a conduit for his people’s strength and wisdom. This solo effort felt like arrogance.

Glancing back he saw the two following and the renewed forest singing strength and assurance back to him. He closed his eyes for a second, and then looked up to the stars, begging for their support as he carried on. He was the only elf around; the task was his.

He walked through the black groves calling on the frayed strength of his bond to Middle-earth and the true calling of his ancestors, Silvan and Sindar alike. Later-born he was sure a more ancient elf would have wisely refrained from a task of this magnitude.

The tossing wind in the canopy swished like waves, stirring the call of the sea.  He flicked that passion aside. Legolas was Teleri to his feä; this was his land. Land that once held so strong a bond over his people that they had been unable to leave it even at the urgent request of Oromë.

His ancestors had wakened these trees with joyous song. He was of royal blood and his duty now was to save them from evil. Digging even deeper he stepped forward.

His trance-like song trailed green in his wake.

Quickbeam and Radagast followed closely. Radagast reinforcing Quickbeam’s assessments of those trees that could be trusted to stay green, Radagast’s power putting those more chancy back to vegative sleep.

The night progressed, Menelmacar with his shining belt, swung through the sky guiding the elven song, seemingly sped on by the wind blown clouds. Ithil lit the spaces the allies cleared, washing the cleansed night in purest white.

Finally they came to the clearing with the pit in the middle, already Treebeard’s song had joined in harmony with Quickbeam’s.  Legolas’ song, soaring in glorious descant knitted agony into peace.

He was done. Evil lingered at the fringes of the valley but he could not reach it.

The elf stumbled, empty now of thought or feeling.  He was spread, thin as mist and as like to blow away on a stray breeze. Dully he felt pain as his knees impacted on knotted roots bounding the hole.

Quickbeam matched his name and caught the elda before he pitched headfirst into Treebeard’s prison. Tenderly the ent lifted the limp elf and placed him on the moss beneath a newly contrite beech.

Radagast rested a gnarled hand on the golden hair. He shook his head.

“So impetuous, so young. The Valar know not what they are taking on by calling thee so early.” Radagast’s eye glittered in the moonlight as he turned to meet Quickbeam’s concerned face. “ He has spent himself this night, old friend. But fear not, the path of dreams will refresh him soon enough, he comes from strong stock. Let us …”

The wizard stiffened and spun to the south, peering into the tree-shrouded distance as if he could pierce the dark by effort of will.

“No! More orcs?” The wizard glowed for a moment as he extended his power, then he went out like an extinguished lamp.

Quickbeam peered at the seeming old man. “There is trouble?”

Radagast leaned on his staff and closed his eyes, his face a seamed map of pain.

“Always, as we fight against this enemy, there will be trouble.” He sighed, “Aragorn’s camp is beset, but we can do nothing about it from here. Come, let us free your lord.”

Quickbeam, with the surprising strength of Radagast anchoring him to the earth, leaned into the pit, reaching, straining, until he was able to knot his twig-like fingers into those of Treebeard. In no time the ancient ent was up and out of the ground. The two tree shepherds then shared a long look and turned to the pit, spreading their long toes into the ground and ripping the root bound soil into sods and chunks. Within minutes the hole was filled in.

0000

Aragorn, like Gimli, slept lightly.  The first screams jerked him out of slumber and almost immediately out of bed. Duilin stepped into his tent, saw his lord was awake and stepped to the lamp to turn up its flame.

“Anduril.” Aragorn, struggling slightly with his leather surcoat, waved at his sword with a free hand.

Duilin dared to hesitate. “Sire, it would be safer…”

Aragorn made a noise that, had it been made by a dog, would have been described as a snarl. His eyes blazed in outrage at his bodyguard.

Duilin frowned but unhooked Anduril from its stand and went to his lord holding the belt out as if to gird it on to his liege.

Aragorn took the sword firmly out of his hands and started belting it on to himself, all the while moving towards the door flap.

“There is no time, Duilin. We are attacked. Get out there and help the defence.”

Duilin, stubborn slipped out of the door first, and then waited for Aragorn to emerge a second later. The two men locked eyes.

“My place is by your side, Sire.”

Duilin now had his sword unsheathed, and was scanning the ground around Aragorn for enemies. The rest of Aragorn’s guard were either already setting up a defensive perimeter near the pavilion, or running up from the main body of the camp to join the squad.

Aragorn growled again. “The fighting is yonder, Captain.”

Duilin looked mulish; Aragorn snapped.

He grabbed his startled bodyguard by the arm and half ran half dragged him over to where Dervoron was mustering the rest of the black and silver clad guard.

Without stopping, the king ploughed straight through the ranks of guards, snatched the Silver Tree of Gondor out of its holder where it was hung marking his headquarters, handed it to Duilin, and then set off towards the sounds of fighting.

Dervoron, with commendable initiative, bellowed the rest of the guard into formation around him, if a step to the rear. Aragorn glanced back and shot Dervoron a fierce grin.

“Gondor! Gondor! To me.” The king’s lungs nearly matched those of his sergeant. Several more hastily armoured troops sped out from the tents and swelled Dervoron’s ranks.

Aragorn finally let go of Duilin’s arm. They were reaching the edge of the camp. His bodyguard would not look at him but shouldered the banner and applied himself to scanning all around for threats. In less than a minute they passed the last line of tents and found the disturbance.

There were knots of men fighting back to back against what, at first glance in the moonlight, seemed a swarm of black shapes that resolved themselves quickly into the loathed and varied shapes of orcs.

One group broke over and around the defenders like a wave and then came running on towards the camp.

“Now!’ Aragorn bellowed. Dervoron’s troops surged around their king and the battlefield dissolved, as always, into chaos.

Aragorn worked his way to his left, aiming for a small hillock that would be as good a place as any to plant Gondor’s colours.

Gimli was there before him, with a group of Rohirric warriors on foot forming a double line. The dwarf’s silver hair and beard seemed to be working like a beacon for the orcs because the fighting was fierce and bloody, Gimli’s flashing axe blade was making short work of any orc unfortunate enough to come within its reach. A man fell to Gimli’s left just as Aragorn ran up.

Gimli saw his next adversary quail before him and then turn and run, and realised he had been relieved.

“Took your time, laddie.”

Gimli turned to the fallen soldier, and then passed his hand over the sightless eyes, closing them. He looked up at Aragorn, his face grim. Aragorn extended a hand and pulled the dwarf back up to his feet.

“Here they come again.” Aragorn was terse as the rabble of orcs, driven now by some of Earnulf’s hastily mounted riders, flowed back towards the rise.

The orcs were desperate, horses behind and the well-defended camp ahead, they flung themselves onto the wall of weapons with blood curdling despair.

Aragorn cut the head from one, speared another through the heart with Anduril’s point and hamstrung another as it turned to flee. Gimli’s axe finished the job.

Men’s screams mingled with bestial orcish grunts.

Still they came.

Aragorn struggled with his adversary, hilt locked on the orcish blade, stepped back and twisted his sword free.

Another blade swung at him, waist high and he needed to block the orc in front of him.

A black clad body knocked him aside, taking the cut. Aragorn put Anduril through the arm of the beast in front and danced sideways out of the way of the falling orc. His back felt unguarded but then Gimli was there, his solid form back to back with the king. Aragorn took the head off the next stumbling orc and cast around, looking for the next. There were none. The sound of hooves came close and he looked up. Earnulf raised his bloody lance in salute as his eored swept past, chasing the last three orcs as they attempted to reach the dubious sanctuary of the trees.

The level of noise dropped suddenly, to be filled with the groans and cries of the wounded. Aragorn looked around, black clad bodies littered the ground around him, and a furtive wind lifted The Silver Tree, once, twice then left it to play in the forest.

A whimper sounded at Aragorn’s feet, he stooped beside the soldier who had saved him in that last melee. Inevitably it was Duilin.

Familiar grief speared the king. That Duilin’s loyalty and devotion had led to this meagre end, cut nearly in two by a monster that was thought to be extinct. It was insupportable.

Aragorn dropped to his knees, leant into the man’s face, placed his hands on either side of his head, and saw Duilin focus on him in his agony.

“Sire, you live?” Duilin’s lips curved up in a travesty of a smile. “I did not fail you?”

Tears sprang unbidden to the king’s eye.

“Never, most loyal of men, never.”

“Paid my debt, then.” Duilin gasped, turned his head within the cradle of the king’s hands and let the blood that had filled his mouth trickle free. “Paid …”

The light faded from his eyes and the king bent his head, wrung, wishing, bereft.

TBC

Rose Sared

Evensong Ch 14

Sorry for the delay in posting.

I had an attack of adjectivitis and had to go back three chapters or so and do a detailed edit. Sometimes you read what you have written and are as impressed as a budgie at its reflection, other times you go back and it reads like the rather dodgy stuff it is. Personally I blame R.A. MacAvoy – she writes such limpid prose I should never contemplate writing after reading her.

Enough of the penitence.

Thanks to the ever long suffering Theresa Green.

Despite her own stories being at nail biting point she always finds time to Beta mine. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. If you care for your reading health show your appreciation to her by reading and reviewing her original fics.

http://www.fictionpress.com/~theresagreen

You will not regret it. Rose XX

ps: Ruth. Lord Murfae, of course, made sure Theresa got back to me as soon as I did something about the delay! My apologies.

It seemed to Gimli, in the busy aftermath of the battle, that the first time he had an opportunity to pause and draw breath the sun was well clear of the horizon and the wild horns of Rohan were filling the camp with their welcome, if tardy, song.

Curious, he detoured through a line of tents and stood on the rim of the camp looking for the riders. He squinted into the south, but the pall of smoke bending away from where the dead orcs burned marred his view.  To the west the ground rose slightly, but he could hear the steady sound of digging. The slain of Gondor and Rohan would be honoured this evening.

The horns sounded again and finally he saw the first ranks of riders approaching, between the smoke and the digging. A couple of soldiers carrying the colours of Rohan and Gondor were trotting out from Aragorn’s camp to meet them.

Gimli grunted in satisfaction. One more detail ticked off the mental list of tasks he could and would manage to relieve the pressure on Aragorn. Not that Earnulf needed much teaching. Gimli was impressed by the lad’s grim efficiency this morning. Dervoron was mustering Aragorn’s guard and the camp’s servants and services were swinging into action again. The pervasive smell of bread baking was a welcome relief to noses offended by the stench of battle and burning.

Gimli lifted his gaze. Rain stalked the plains behind Elfwine’s troops, greening the grass. Soon the new sun would be veiled. He looked at the smoke again, hoping that the fire’s cleansing work would be done before the rain quenched it. Gimli had slipped out of Aragorn’s tent earlier to get on with things, leaving the king surveying the butcher’s bill of wounded and slain brought to him by Sarthor the healer. Aragorn’s mask-like face as he put his duties on like a lead cape had been as grey as the clouds; he was taking no time for grief or rest.

The oncoming troops were wheeling now, directed by the heralds to the new campsite Earnulf had confirmed with Gimli not a half hour past. Gimli turned his back on the scene, already moving on to the next task he wanted to do, which was make sure that armourer of Aragorn’s had the repairs and sharpening of the soldier’s arms well in hand.

He picked his way back between the tent pegs and then continued on his way towards the smithy. He was preoccupied as he drew near the forest end of the camp, thinking about lists and tasks, but then he looked up and drew a relieved breath, loosing a tension in his shoulders he had not realised he was carrying.

 Legolas and the wizard were watching two ents as they swayed gracefully back into the woods. Gimli saw Radagast pat the elf’s arm as he approached. The wizard nodded to the dwarf confidently, and then made his way back towards the king’s tent. Legolas stayed where the wizard left him, gazing at the trees; he appeared distracted.

Gimli paused at his friend’s side. “You missed a good battle,” he said evenly, tilting his beard up.

“Aye, so I see.” The elf raised his hand and almost touched the dwarf’s blood marred silver hair, “Has no one offered you time to wash this gore off, Gimli?” The elf smiled slightly turning his head to his friend. “You want to scare the cook boys, perhaps?” The elf’s hand ghosted over the shining axe in its sheath, “You took time to clean this.”

Gimli snorted. As if he would leave his weapon sullied. He narrowed his eyes at the elf. Legolas looked ethereal, not frail but otherworldly. His attention had drifted from Gimli and his eyes were now fixed on the black smoke drifting to the south. Gimli felt goosebumps on his arms and suspected that more than one battle had been fought last night.

“Orcs.” The dwarf stated, shortly.

The elf graced him a grim smile, then seemed to drift off again, listening to something Gimli could not hear.

“Have you seen Aragorn, Legolas?” Gimli called the elf back to the moment and watched as the smooth brow furrowed.

“Aye, we just came from his tent.” Legolas looked at his friend. “Who fell, Gimli? Estel looks drawn and joy has no part of him despite yonder pyre that signals his victory.”

“Duilin, amongst others.”

“Ah.” The elf bowed his head, placing a hand over his heart. “He would grieve for him. He ever felt responsible for his life.”

Gimli was silent. He knew Duilin’s tale and Aragorn’s sense of guilt. Eventually he looked up again to see Legolas; he was swaying slightly. The dwarf put a hand on his friend’s back and started him walking.

“You brought Aragorn news of the forest?” Gimli nodded at the trees. “That was Treebeard wasn’t it?”

Legolas caught sight of some grime on the back of his hand and rubbed it against his leggings. He flexed his shoulders, and winced slightly and then looked down at his frowning friend.

“Aye, you remember him well.” He looked suddenly weary, as if some inner light had gone out.  “Aragorn will call us back to council later this day when the Rohirrim are settled or I know him not. Do you know where I can get clean?”

Gimli sighed. Legolas would be no source of information unless this need was met. Whatever he had faced in the woods it had rattled the elf, his fussiness was only evident when he was seriously stressed. The dwarf looked towards the smithy. The armourer looked to have all in hand, the camp was ordered and the chain of command re-established.

The elf and dwarf arrived in front of Gimli’s tent on the edge of the camp. The scalloped awning flapped slightly in the rising breeze.

Gimli stepped round his friend and indicated the open door.

“Come, let us take an hour to make ourselves presentable. I have already ordered a tub for my tent. You can have first go while I go fetch some hot water to ease my old bones. I know you prefer cold.”

He let his friend precede him. Once inside the tent the elf stopped again distracted by the dappled patterns of shadow cast by the trees and the counter-ripples of water reflected from the tin bath onto the canvas. Gimli rolled the door flap down then turned to his friend.

Gimli tugged lightly on the end of Legolas’ bow and the elf came to himself again, shrugging the weapon off his shoulder. Gimli propped it in a corner and turned in time to collect the quiver also. Legolas sat on the edge of Gimli’s cot and then seemed to stall, all the weariness in the world catching up with him. His head dropped into the cradle of his hands.

Gimli sat down, gingerly, beside him. “Can you tell me aught, lad? I am nothing but at least a good pair of ears.”

The elf looked at him, his eyes full of pain. “You are much more than that, Gimli.” He turned back, stared at the canvas floor of the tent. “But this evil. Ai, Gimli, this evil has existed since before our world was built. How shall we oppose it?”

“Do we have a choice?”

The elf breathed out. “Last night,” he rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair, snagging his fingers on his braids. Absently he started to undo one, picking at the weaving and leaving the pale strands crinkled. “Last night I had no choice. But the power I tapped to reach the trees and calm them, it cored me, Gimli. Today I am as hollow as a gourd. Yet still, as you say, what choice are we given?”

Gimli tapped the elf on his elbow, beckoning him to shed his leather jerkin. Legolas looked at him for a second and then wriggled his far arm out of the garment; Gimli pulled on his side and shucked the elf out of it. The dwarf folded the warm leather into tidiness on his lap.

Legolas unwound his other braid and then ran his hands back into his hair again, massaging his scalp. Gimli watched the muscles of the elf’s shoulders flex and move under the silk of his dove-grey undershirt. His friend looked too earthy and real to be talking so casually of power. Those muscles were built of hard practise with bow and blade, not some unearthly magic, the residual warmth he could feel under his hands was generated by the same effort of heart and blood that warmed all creation.

The dwarf shivered, reminded of the vital presence that had filled his dream. The life he owed to the Valar.

“Mahal called me, Legolas. By his grace I will oppose whatever is marring our world; it is what I was given this time for. You will oppose the same evil because it your nature to do so, as it is Aragorn’s. The Valar will give us the strength, or they will not. Let us not strive with our fate.”

The dwarf climbed to his feet and stowed the jerkin on the end of his cot. Bending he fished a thin towel and a sliver of yellow soap from his pack and tossed them to the elf.

“Go and commune with the water in my tub. I would our troubles could be wiped away as easily as grime, but all feels more possible when our bodies are clean. I will return shortly to make sure you have not drowned and solved your uncertainties the short way.”

Gimli heard an inelegant insult follow him out of the tent. It made him smile, not much was wrong with the elf if he still remembered that piece of Khuzdul. He snagged a bucket for his own supply of hot water and then detoured past the smithy to make sure Aragorn’s lad really had all things in hand.

He returned rather later than he had intended. The rain had started falling, making percussive music on the canvas of the massed tents. He found the elf brushing his hair dry using Gimli’s own silver backed brush, sitting cross legged in front of a small, lit, brazier in the awning of Gimli’s tent.

“Where is your hot water?”

Gimli waved somewhat sheepishly at the small procession that trailed behind him, three servants carrying steaming buckets and one carrying a covered tray. The dwarf tossed a wine skin and the elf’s own pack to his friend. Legolas wordlessly handed the dwarf back his brush and opened the string of his pack to rummage inside for his own grooming tools.

“They insisted.” Gimli picked a golden hair or two out of the bristles of the brush and directed the helpers inside to re-fill the tub.

Legolas uncapped the wineskin and sniffed the contents. He took a swallow and then grinned up at the dwarf.

Gimli indicated that the tray bearer should leave his burden at the elf’s feet and then ducked inside the tent with an answering grin. Legolas at least had recovered himself with that small gift of time, like a wilted flower given care. He could only hope for such a renaissance himself.

“Don’t drown.” Legolas’ voice teased him from outside as he shed his gear.

00000

When he emerged from the tent, later than he would have chosen if, lulled by the incessant drumming of the rain, he had not dozed in the hot water, Gimli found the awning of his tent rather more populated than it had been when he had left it.

Beside Legolas, Aragorn sat indulging in a pipe, his long legs stretched out to the fire. Radagast lounged on the other side of the brazier, the drips from the canvas edge somehow arching around him. A Rohirrim captain of middle years looking uncomfortable, squatted beside the wizard, equally dry. Black and silver liveried guards flanked the party, stoic in the rain.

“Ah, Gimli.” Aragorn patted the mat that had been put down to protect the enlarged party from the damp. “Thank you for joining us.”

“You could have called me.” Gimli glared at the elf, who gazed back at him innocently.

“Nay, Gimli, I forbade him.” Aragorn turned a worn face to the dwarf, who contrite sat down beside the king. “Truly, I needed the respite.”

Gimli looked into the king’s weary eyes and simply nodded. Legolas looked gratitude at his friend over Aragorn’s shoulder. Gimli settled himself and picked up a heel of bread, spreading what was left of some soft cheese into its spongy middle.

Aragorn smoked silently as the dwarf ate. Finally the king looked regretfully into his empty pipe and then at the dwarf.

Gimli turned an enquiring eye to the Rohirrim and then the King.

“Gimli, this is Captain Healfred, he is leading the reinforcements you billeted so efficiently this morn.”

Gimli shrugged slightly, shunning the implied thanks. Aragorn shook his head.

“Gimli,” The king held the smaller being’s eye. “He has a cave-troll.”

TBC

Rose Sared

Beta’d by Theresa Green, coherence is hers, and mistakes mine. Thank you for reading. RS

Evensong 15

Gimli muttered darkly into his beard as he trailed after Aragorn and his party, not reassured by Healfred’s assurances.

“Chains. Pah, the orcs had chains. Didn’t stop the beast from escaping.”

Gimli skirted a grass-studded puddle that reflected the fleeing clouds. The rain had stopped and was at least not adding to his misery. He glanced up. Aragorn’s long-legged party was almost out of sight amongst the tents of the Rohirrim. Gimli’s feet stopped without any instruction from his brain.

Gimli examined the bent blades of water-sodden grass. The earth smelled clean, the breeze was brisk, the sun trying to break through.

This would never do. He turned and looked back at the illusory safety promised by Aragorn’s camp. The trees of Fangorn loomed over the huddled encampment.  Shafts of sunlight lit the foliage leaving most in shadow. The forest looked neutral this day, neither welcoming nor repelling Gimli’s eye. The dwarf sighed, turned again and stomped off down the path Aragorn had taken.

Legolas fell in beside him as he passed the barrier of the first tents.

“Not a word, elf.” Gimli growled.

Legolas turned his head away, a detail on the tent they were passing suddenly fascinating.

Gimli found himself fighting his own rueful smile.

“Have you seen it then?” he asked, a little further down the path.

Legolas looked at him, his face expressionless. “Yes, it is well confined and seems fearful of the sun. It is not being aggressive.”

“Has it spoken?”

“Not while I was there.”

Conversation lapsed until they finally caught up with the King’s party. Radagast was standing somewhat apart so that he could see into a crudely constructed shelter cobbled together from several tents.

Gimli nodded to Aragorn and then walked out and around further so that he too could see. A long shudder took him as he made out the massive lumpen shape of the cave troll. All he could see was its back; the thing had a tattered jute sack draped over its head, further hiding its eyes from the light. Sturdy black chains that looked as if they had been stripped from the ox-carts looped around the grey torso, metal pegs secured the chains to the earth. The troll strained against them in its efforts to stay shaded and the only sound for an instant was the clinking of the links as the beast shuffled itself even further away from the audience.

Legolas, as ever silently at his side now stepped forward to flank the wizard. Gimli wondered if his shielding Gimli’s view of the troll was calculated and in the same breath knew it was.

“Has it said anything?” Legolas asked Radagast.

The wizard looked at the elf, then fleetingly back at Gimli who had moved sideways a few more paces. The dwarf had unsheathed his axe and was leaning on its glittering head, looking both intent and thoughtful.

“It said it was not here to fight us, and then settled thus,” the wizard pointed with his staff.

Legolas stepped a pace or two closer, ignoring Gimli’s sharp intake of breath.

“Troll.” His musical voice cut through the general hum of conversation. Aragorn walked nearer, interested to see if the beast reacted to the eldar.

“Why have you left your mountain home?”

For a moment the beast did not respond, then the small head turned slightly towards the elf, a massive hand lifted the edge of the coarse sack. Gimli spotted the red glint of a shaded eye.

Trust an elf, they would talk to anything, they talked to trees, rocks were not so large a stretch. Gimli swallowed his discomfort and tried to force his feet to carry him closer

“Called.” A voice as deep as a well ground out of the troll, “Mother not want to go but must when grey-faces come. Told me to, stay, hide. But then I called too. “ The troll pulled the sack over its face again and turned away, “Had to follow Mother anyway. She last.”

“Last what?” Gimli had walked forward and now stood beside the elf. Radagast raised his staff and a green radiance covered the elf and the dwarf as they stepped even closer, within the possible reach of the troll; the guard had already politely but firmly restrained the king.

The troll lifted the sack again and turned with a clinking of chains. Gimli lifted his axe and Rohirric guards, bowmen all, raised nocked arrows to cover the beast. The troll peered out into the day, sniffing and trying to locate the voice that had spoken.

“Mossy Rock?” it sounded astounded.

Gimli stumbled back a pace, two. Stared at the troll, and then with a visible effort stepped up once again to Legolas’ side.

“Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth.” The dwarf stepped forward again, axe ready but well in reach of the cave-troll’s arms. “The last what? You owe me, child.”

“My mother. She last she-troll. Granite-Glinting. No mother, no more cave-troll. Ever.” The troll strained forward to the limit of the chains and then sat back down. It dropped its sack-clad head. “You help me, Mossy-Rock. I help you. We find Mother, squash grey face, and then go back home. Not bother two legs ever.” He peered up from under his massive brow and looked at Legolas. “Been very good. No two leg pets, no pets at all. Not bother any two legs on mountain in dark. Been good.” Stone-Water-Worn –Smooth looked hopefully at the elf, saw no softness in the face that opposed him and pulled the sack over his eyes again. Chains rattling it shifted around again to put most of its body in the deepest shade.

Legolas’ hand hooked into the back of Gimli’s jacket and stalled his instinctive, sympathetic step forward. Gimli turned to glare and met Legolas’ will of adamant.

“It is still a creature of the dark, a child of Morgoth. Trust it not, Gimli.”

Gimli held Legolas’ eye for a moment, and then shook his head and stepped away. He started off towards Aragorn’s party. Legolas shared a wry look with Radagast and then set off after him. The wizard stayed just where he was, observing the troll.

00000

 The sun lit the dispersed clouds red and gold as the Rohirrim and the soldiers of Gondor finished honouring their dead.

“I feel as if this day has spanned an age.” Gimli commented quietly to Legolas as they followed Aragorn back to the camp. The elf bowed his head as they passed the third cairn piled over the fallen, and then caught his companion’s eye.

“Indeed, and now we go to council. Necessity makes a hard master of Aragorn.”

“He is harder on himself,” the dwarf watched as the King left the burial ground and headed purposefully towards the tent that was set aside for the injured. “A scant half hour have we before we meet to pool our knowledge but still he rests not.”

The friends took the chance to change out of their more ceremonial garb then made their way to Aragorn’s pavilion, expecting some wait before the king would catch them up. They were surprised when Aragorn himself greeted them.

“Sarthor threw me out,” Aragorn replied to Legolas’ raised eyebrow.

The King indicated the table of food set out for the visitors and waited for them to fill their plates before leading them to the prepared venue. With a swish and a rustle Treebeard strode up to the grassy space in front of the king’s tent and started exchanging greetings with the king.

Aragorn’s servants had placed his camp chair on a small platform and Aragorn sat, looking at least as regal as he did in his throne room. He accepted a pewter goblet from proffered tray and sipped as Treebeard continued his opening remarks looking attentively at the Ent. Legolas and Gimli made short work of their dinners and then Treebeard finally came to the end of his greetings.

“…And my thanks also to Legolas of the Nine Walkers, Prince of Ithilien, son of Thranduil. Your help last night deserves a much longer tale but I must be hasty here, Aragorn, or we will be into the next sun round. Forgive my manners.”

Aragorn smiled and inclined his head and the tall being shuffled backwards a little to complete the circle.

Healfred and Dervoron sat on benches on the opposite side of the warming central brazier, Legolas and Gimli occupied benches near the King, and the wizard sat in another camp chair beside the Ent.

“Legolas, Gimli.” Aragorn turned to his friends. “ Tell us of what you know of this evil. Gimli, perhaps you could share your vision, Legolas your knowledge of what is happening to the magic of Middle-earth. Healfred, please share with us your troop numbers and the details of the orders given to you from your liege, King Elfwine. We needs must plan to control and exterminate this sudden plague of evil beasts that threaten both our realms and Treebeard’s forest. Radagast, your wisdom is sorely needed, as you, like my elven friend, must have insights into the strain on the magic of our land. Treebeard we need your ancient wisdom. We need a plan my friends and allies, lest the darkness like to that we vanquished a lifetime of men ago, creeps back to defile all we hold dear.”

00000

High in the caverns of Methedras, Celebrimbor and Narvi huddled in the workroom, hearing the foul screeches and calls of the orc host echoing through the labyrinth.

So far Narvi’s defences had done their job. None of the foul creatures had found their hideaway. Narvi had triggered several deadfalls and sealed them from all but one tricky passage.

Still the evil pressed against her.

Valda tingled as prepared traps accessed her magic. Narvi felt her spirit lift for each vibration, each distant scream, felt her spirit sink as she looked at the elf.

He was engraving some last rune on the very mouthpiece of the work. He would not hurry and pretended deafness as she urged him to flee with her.

Narvi saw a torch guttering and leapt to replace it before he would notice the dying of the light.

He would not be hurried or distracted so Narvi paced for the two of them, trying not to think beyond the evening, to the craft-master’s triumph. He would work his magic now the work was finished. He planned to do it the very cusp of the next dawn.

How had this day arrived?

Narvi took the spent torch to the small pile of stores she had accumulated.

How could this be the end of their great service? 

She re-packed the charred end of the torch with straw she had gathered summers past, oiled it with pitch collected from trees she had nurtured from pine-cones.

They had endured for an age, longer than any she had heard of except the high ones in Celebrimbor’s tales.

Dwarves endured, she knew this. She proved this. She would last as long as she was needed. Celebrimbor endured as long as Valda willed his healing.

Was the need now ended, with the coming of the next dawn?

Narvi found herself in the long habit of living. Her mind shied from any other state. His state was more ambiguous. What was he feeling?

Narvi placed the renewed torch alongside the half dozen others in the pile.

The silvery sound of a tool hitting the stone floor pulled her from her reverie. Celebrimbor straightened, stood impossibly tall in the flickering light, ran his eyes over the whole wonderful construction.

“Elbereth, it is done.”

Narvi felt the small hairs on her arms stand up as the convoluted and coiled metal thrummed with something that resembled life. Valda pulsed on her finger and the thing pulsed back at the ring. Eager.

Somewhere in the mountain the cacophony of orc screams and troll bellows cut off, silenced by the new power awakened.

Narvi swallowed. Celebrimbor looked alien in that moment, remote and cold, a god surveying his handiwork and not displeased. He turned to look out of the cave – stars wheeled in their stately dance, marking the night, the hour.

The silence from the enemy pressed on Narvi.

“Could I not practise, master? It is a vast instrument, what if I cannot wind it?”

Celebrimbor turned his silver gaze away from the heavens and looked at her. “Doubts? From you, my rock?”

Narvi looked down, “An end to all the evil in the world, master. How if I fail?”

The elf was suddenly standing in front of her. He rested a weightless hand on her hair. Far away in the caverns an orc screeched, answered by another, nearer. Narvi felt the faintest of tremors shake his arm.

“You will blow the breath of Middle-earth into this instrument at the time I have appointed, and by your pure heart and the grace of my gifts the Valar will hear the note that has been missing from the chord of life. Missing since Melkor interweaved matters of his own imagining into Ilúvatar’s song.” Celebrimbor stooped then and met Narvi’s eye, reached to smooth her furrowed brow. He continued, “ Dread will fall on all unnatural life, orcs, trolls, goblins, all the evil and debased beasts that call the fallen one, lord. No more will they have access to his influence because the note will mend the rift in the Walls of the World. That little flaw that he picks at and enlarges and whispers through, drawing all the weak and wicked under his influence. The beasts he quickened will die without issue, and the world will be safe from them, and the rest of creation will live evermore, as Ilúvatar intended.”

Narvi looked into his silver eyes, and thought of the burden of years they had spanned together. Her a child of a lesser god, and he, noble and arrogant, of the first born, defying death by his own craftsmanship to complete this massive work. His creation, the ring Valda, thrummed on her finger and she reached up and touched the blue glow to his cheek.

“As you say, master, it will be so, and I, poor as I am, will be equal to the task.”

The elf stood again, left his hand resting on her shoulder. Narvi lifted it off and held it. “Come, let us rest until dawn. Let us have some peace before the end.” She tugged on his hand and he followed this time, meekly, allowing her care.

TBC

Rose

Wonderful Beta, as ever, by the luminous, Theresa Green. My humble thanks.

Evensong 16

Gimli followed the faint glow shed by his elven friend as Aragorn’s company marched through the forest of Fangorn into the musty cold of the smallest hours of the night – moving with a purpose, at last, after a crowded day of planning, preparation and futile attempts to rest; letting the animal pleasure of movement suppress his mind’s forebodings.

Gimli deliberately did not think of the cave-troll in the van of the force, used by Aragorn and Radagast as a lodestone. He would not think of the tidal pull that he felt in his own breast, a tug that was urging him in the same direction. He would tramp through the drifting moonlit mists of this blackest of woods and not think of trees with eyes, or of malice harboured towards an axe-wielder.

Gimli’s preoccupation broke as Legolas began to sing, some eldritch martial ballad in his own tongue. Invisible in the tangle of trees ahead and above Aragorn took up the song, the mingled voices of elf and man made a counterpoint to the tramp and crackle of the infantry flanking them, all moving forward and up to the stone fields of Methedras.

To the rear Gimli could feel rather than hear Treebeard’s humming accompaniment to the tune.

The opal mists and twisted trunks became enchanted rather than menacing under the shelter of the song and Gimli allowed the iron control he imposed over his emotions ease a little, let his foolish heart lift to the beat of the march.

The ground rose inexorably under his boots. Gimli soldiered on, grateful, as he was on an hourly and daily basis, for the reprieve he had been granted in his health. Hardly winded he reached the stated rendezvous, a moon-washed, starlit alp above the tree line on the knee of Methedras.

Gimli joined the throng of soldiers gathering on the rocky platform, all being efficiently mustered by their sergeants into defensive positions. Aragorn and Radagast were deep in conversation; Gimli wormed his way forward to the crest of the ridge and cast his own professional eye over the silver-lit rock-face that was their goal.

Gimli’s compulsion pulled him, reeled him in like a hooked fish and pointed him at a jumble of boulders to the left of the face, a garden of stone that could have sheltered an army. Indeed as he watched he realised the stones swarmed with dark shapes and the wind that twisted out of the valley carried the yipping, screeching calls of orcs. 

The pull strengthened and it was a wrench to step back, turn and walk to join Aragorn and Legolas as they watched the activity further down the valley, a grassy finger of Rohan that led up to this peak.

Horns sang sweetly on the breeze and Gimli could see squads of Rohirrim riding up the coomb herding orcs into blind-ends to be slaughtered. Other soldiers abandoned their horses and climbed the cliff walls, running the rock ledges to catch the leaderless creatures, wiping them out without mercy. The orcs scattered, re-formed into bands, but succumbed to the assault like ants before boiling water.

“Healfred made good time then.” Aragorn nodded to the low voiced communication of one of his captains and waved assent to Dervoron posted to his right. He turned to Legolas who had appeared at his side.

“Shall we aid them in clearing this nest of vipers?” The king laid a hand on his sword hilt. “Where shall we start?

Legolas turned to Gimli with an eyebrow lifted in question.

Gimli pointed – into the boulders.

“There.” He looked over to the cave-troll who was straining at the end of the chain controlled now by Treebeard. “Stone-Water knows.”

The noise of the beleaguered orcs sounded suddenly louder. The riders were driving a band up the face towards Aragorn’s position.

“Nock” Dervoron’s archers obeyed, “Fire!” the thrum of arrows filled the air, “Second rank. Fire!” and again.

The unearthly screeches changed. Legolas stalked over to the edge and peered into the shadow. Calm, he drew and loosed, twice. One final cry cut off mid-gurgle. The elf lowered his bow. Turned on his heel to return to Aragorn and Gimli’s side.

The air in the valley tightened, an inaudible pulse causing them all to clutch at their heads, their ears.

Legolas stiffened, his back arching.

Gimli, in motion before thought, caught the elf before he could topple from the cliff, snatching the slight weight into his arms even as Legolas folded.

The air settled, with somehow a new taste. The elf opened eyes that were all pupil and risked lowering his hands from his ears. He seemed dazed, looked right through Gimli and equally through the king who came to stoop over them both.

“Radagast!”  Aragorn twisted to spot the wizard, saw him climbing to his feet from a similar collapse, turned back to see Legolas recovering his scattered self, despite the tremor visible in the slim hand that reached for Gimli’s shoulder.

Gimli voiced their confusion. “What was that?”

Radagast tottered up, looking ancient and frail, leaning on his staff as if he needed the support.

“Sorcery. Something new has been given life.” The wizard’s voice cracked, he cleared his throat, “It is a like a beacon and it is drawing on the very fabric of our world.”

The wizard reached down a gnarled hand and rested it on Legolas’ head. The elf sighed after a moment and glanced up in gratitude at the wizard. With a final squeeze to Gimli’s shoulder the elf flowed to his feet – grace restored.

Gimli clambered back to his feet with less alacrity – turned and peered into the battlefield.

“The orcs are gone,” he announced gruffly.  He peered after the party of larger folk and then something caught his eye further along the edge. “The troll is free!” his voice sounded loud with alarm. 

Aragorn spun, and then watched helplessly as the cave troll lumbered with surprising speed across the scree slope, vanishing at last behind the boulders.

Gimli found his axe in his hands and ran forward as if to follow the beast, realised he was mostly responding to the call redoubled in his breast and yielded to both Aragorn and Legolas’ restraining hands.

“Look to Treebeard,” he muttered, embarrassed to be found acting so impulsively.

Aragorn allowed Legolas to take over Gimli and walked over to the Ent. Treebeard swayed gently to a breeze only he could hear, but did not rouse to either the king’s pleas or the wizard’s entreaties.

Shaking his head Aragorn left the wizard and walked over to consult with his captains. The soldiers had kept their positions; they looked tense but not shaken by the magic that Aragorn felt had plucked some cord in his soul.

“We will secure those boulders.” Aragorn raised his sword and pointed.

His command set the men into motion, and the soldiers formed up into squads and followed the now vanished cave troll across the face of the mountain and into the rocks.

Gathering up Legolas and Gimli with a nod, Aragorn and his bodyguard followed the main troop across the shifting scree and into the mottled shadows cast by the stones.

A series of cave mouths were secured, one after the other, abandoned now by the orcs and goblins that had swarmed out of them before. 

Gimli leaned into the nearest yawning mouth and listened. Echoing in the dark the calls of the enemy receded into the mountain, following the same pull that urged him to follow, as fast as his reluctant legs would carry him.

Gimli resisted, again, and turned back to the folk gathered behind him.

“What I seek is in there.” He shifted his axe in his hands and looked into the faces of his friends.

 Legolas did not flinch, even though the prospect of travelling underground must have dismayed him. Aragorn nodded, the rest of the men surrounding the king looked unhappy.

“We are here to support you, Gimli.” Aragorn moved a step or so closer, “And I am hungry to clean out this invasion of the peace we have hewn for our lands. It is too long since I have hunted orcs in such company.”

Aragorn clapped a hearty hand on Legolas’ shoulder and propelled the elf up to the cave mouth so that they flanked Gimli.

“Lead on, Elf-friend.” Legolas managed a smile for the dwarf, and Gimli returned it with a grin of his own, and then, eager, started forward; the relief of moving towards the source of his unease lending speed to feet that welcomed the comfort of stone.

00000

Valda awaked Narvi; the ring resonating in pulses that sickened Narvi to her stomach. The dwarf levered creaking bones into action, reached for her weapons, and then stumbled over to Celembrimbor’s pallet. It was empty; hardly a unique event, but the ring’s distress spiked fear into Narvi’s old heart. The air in the sleeping cavern hummed, a faint musical note that set Narvi’s teeth on edge. It was the horn; it must be the horn, that intricate construction sucked all the life out of the air, leaving a strange metallic taste in her mouth.

Narvi had no wish to get near the thing, let alone blow into it next dawn. A faint memory of her own will stirred under her beard, a little voice of rebellion that wondered at her master’s wisdom.

As if called into life by her thought, Celebrimbor was there, tall and ghostly pale in the cavern entrance. A sparkle ran down the edge of the unsheathed sword in his hand, as if the very air was charged.

“They come, Narvi. Listen.”

Narvi heard nothing, but when she rested her hand on the ancient stone of the mountain she could feel them, feel the tramp of countless feet, the stomping of trolls and goblins, heading towards their sanctuary. The horn, that wretched horn, activated now, it removed all doubt and called Melkor’s servants to action. Celebrimbor had called a sentient avalanche down on their heads.

Narvi placed the elf behind her, stalked to the one remaining entrance to their sanctuary, listened to the now clear cries and commotion heading their way. She turned back and glanced at the shining elf, spared a thought for the years she had dedicated to enabling his vision.

Finally she sighed, turned her back on the dark passage and stomped up to confront him.

“Do we still wait for dawn?”

Celebrimbor stooped to look her in the eye – Narvi reached up and rested Valda on his wound; sent him healing in a reflex that was the habit of an age. She shuddered, a chill running down her back as she realised that this was perhaps the last time she would do so, realised that even her own breaths would now be numbered.

Celebrimbor took her healing; his eyes drifting closed, and then nodded in answer to her question.

“Dawn is spilling over the rim of the world even now, old friend.”

“It is time to seal us in, then. You have no doubts, elf?”

The elf did not answer, simply squeezed her shoulder and then drifted off towards the workroom; the sword in his hand still glinting with sparks.

Narvi walked a few steps down the last open passage. Where it contracted to fit her size she reached in and up, and then pulled on the cleverly counterbalanced lever.

The scrape of stone on stone resounded a little deeper into the labyrinth – Narvi listened to her mechanism working and only breathed out when there was a final thud.

The sound of the orcs, skittering, scratching, yelping cut off; Narvi rested her hand on the tunnel wall to feel what they were doing.

Digging, they were digging.

A grim smile touched Narvi’s lips; she had a very personal experience of just how hard the granite was in this mountain. They would need the digging skills of a cave-troll to interrupt them now.

Feeling nostalgic, the ancient dwarf twisted the ring around on her finger to bring the blue stone uppermost – breathed deeply of the stone-scented air that had been the companion of her exile, and then walked back to join Celebrimbor in the scintillating, breathless space that contained the horn. She left her axe propped against the wall of the passage; its sharp edge could not serve them now. The strength of her arm had secured them thus far, now it was down to the purity of her heart and the skills of the greatest craft master ever born of the elves. In the chamber the faintest wash of grey was dimming the dance of stars she could see through the open front of the cavern.

Doom. Doom. The room reverberated with sound of mining, loud and close by.

Celebrimbor took up a position near the mouthpiece. Narvi, resigned now and calm, watched the sky lighten.

“Come.” Celebrimbor held out his hand and indicated the mouthpiece. “It is time.”

Stone dust filtered down from the roof, filling the air.

Narvi stood in front of the gold and mithril artifact.

Doom.

Narvi glanced at the cavern wall to her left; a crack snaked across the surface She looked at Celebrimbor’s calm face – wondered fleetingly who was going to win the race.

The crack widened, Narvi placed her mouth on the instrument and breathed in, the first ray of the sun pierced the rock-dust and shone golden on the elf’s face.

“Now, my friend!”

Celebrimbor started to sing and Narvi gave her breath to the horn.

TBC

Beta and encouragement by Theresa Green, thank you.RC

Evensong 17

 They hunted the caves of Methedras in damp cold that felt left over from the making of the world and dark so deep that it had personality. Finally, as the torchbearers caught up with them, an orange glow lit the way painting grotesque shadows on the walls; orcs became innocent rocks, rocks became the enemy.

"You are enjoying this, aren't you?"  Legolas' voice sounded accusing. The elf drew a bead on a group of fleeing orcs and downed two with a single arrow.

Gimli flashed him a grin full of teeth.

Deep underground, his choices simple, his foe in front of him his friend behind him; it was close to dwarf heaven.

Turning back to his work Gimli cleared the way ahead, knocking the spitting, clawing orc that sprang out at him into the chasm on his left with a sweep of his axe. Jumping forward he hooked another out of the same nook and sent it screeching to follow its fellow. The dwarf peered casually down into the rushing dark, and then beckoned the troop led by Aragorn that trod on the elf's heels.

"This way. I can hear some more of them along here."

Legolas muttered, "Do you have to sound so pleased?"

Ignoring the elf's bad humour Gimli walked on and turned a corner flanked by three of the king's soldiers, all bowmen. Legolas glanced back and tried to make out Aragorn's expression but his face was in the shadow cast by the torchbearer behind him.  The king moved up a couple of steps.

"He does seem to know where he is going."

Legolas shrugged, unappeased.

Aragorn followed the elf into the wider corridor, his bodyguard and the rest of the troop following closely. The orange glow of the torches they carried warmed the cavern; the green glow of Radagast's staff marked the rearguard. The sound of the orcs was diminishing, ebbing away as the bulk of the beasts fled before their well-armed party, the effect more noticeable as the sound of water running beside the ledge faded. Legolas and the king covered each other around the corner, only to find Gimli with his foot on another orc, prizing his axe out of its skull.

"They keep running away. It is hardly any challenge." He sounded disappointed.

The king risked meeting the elf's eye.

The rest of the soldiers spread out, securing the cavern, peering into the several openings that led from it.

"We can stop here a moment then, Gimli." Aragorn looked around the dusty cave. "We could all do with a rest. It must be nearly dawn, think you, Legolas?"

The elf nodded and turned, yearning, towards the east, as if he could will the mountain above transparent so that the lightening sky could be seen.

"Anor will soon breast the lip of the world, outside, where such commonplaces are celebrated."

The king squatted, un-slinging his water bottle.

Gimli ignored the setting of sentries and the settling of the men and stalked around the cave, peering at the carvings on the walls.

"What has happened to your stamina, Aragorn? I remember when you could nearly keep up with...”

"Yes? Oh unwearied dwarf, keep up with..?"

"These carvings are odd." Gimli's voice lost its bantering tone and sounded surprised instead. Turning his attention to the wall and looking carefully at it. "This area here," he ran his finger along at his own waist height, "the stone feels polished, see. Radagast, bring that shining stick of yours here." The wizard moved closer to the dwarf and trailed him by a couple of steps as he intently examined the rock face.

The dwarf followed the smoothed carvings along the side of the cave, rounded a small bulge of rock, and then vanished.

The elf started to his feet and stepped towards the wizard.  Radagast raised his staff as if by illuminating the cave further he could see where the dwarf had gone.

"Gimli!" Aragorn's voice was sharp, alarmed.

Gimli popped out of the wall looking surprised. "What?"

Radagast examined the seeming stone, staring at it with eyes that suddenly looked as sharp as diamonds, "It is a glamour, but masterly. I would not have picked it."

Gimli stepped fully out of the illusion and peered back. "It is a passage. Can you not see?"

Radagast suddenly found Gimli even more interesting than the illusion. "It looks as a wall to most eyes, master dwarf."

Gimli waved his arm into the wall again. "It is a passage."

"Hmm," the wizard peered at the dwarf for a moment. "You are full of surprises, Gimli, Gloin's son."

Then, as the words left his mouth, the world came apart at seams that had never before seemed obvious.

A note sounded. A perfect note, a true note.

Rising in volume the note swelled until it filled not only the air of the world but its substance. All of Middle-earth resonated to its perfect pitch; the song of Arda harmonised, and then absorbed the rightness of the music. Still the note grew until everything that lived was sundered, stretched on the rack of the music, ravelled or unravelled depending on its nature.

00000

Narvi blew, breathed and blew further. The horn seemed to suck everything into its convoluted self; all life, all love, all the years she had given service. Celebrimbor's voice soared over the effect, knitting magic together and amplifying the strength of her breath until faintly a sound began to form.

It was perfection, and Narvi found tears rolling down her cheeks even as she gave more to the horn, gave her heart, her breath, the endurance that had carried her through centuries alone. Celebrimbor shaded his eyes from the gold glow that kindled, and then haloed the horn-blower, swallowing the ancient dwarf until she shone like the sun that framed her.

Still Narvi blew.

The volume grew, swelled more, and became visceral and then almost inaudible.

So vast was the sound, so wrapped in magic, that it rode the wings of Celebrimbor's magic and reached the Walls of the World, and then tugged the substance of the barrier straight, rippled the surface of adamant and cut the thread with which Morgoth sustained his twisted creation.

Like a parted hawser the thread whipped away, and the howl that filled the Timeless Void echoed.

There was a pause as creation held its collective breath, and then the black knot that bound the feä of all orcs to their master unravelled, and those lost souls so long enslaved fled, rejoicing, back to the bosom of Ilúvatar, to be cherished in his light until the end of Arda. The husks of their subjugation were reduced in an eye-blink to mindless beasts, and all the Valar rejoiced at the end of an evil that had endured since the days of Utumno.

Still Celebrimbor sang, gathering himself to finish the work, but behind him the wall that had cracked even as Narvi had prepared to blow the horn, now fell away and the last female cave troll, Granite-Glinting, stepped into the space occupied by the sound of the world being re-shaped.

Anor, framed like an eye in the cavern opening, pierced the troll with fear, but the great wrenching in her spirit that was the re-ordering of creation scared her more urgently.

Granite-Glinting stepped forward and found the source of her terror, the singing elf in front of her. She swung her club, swatting the two-leg, crushing him like a wayward fly. The troll turned from the suddenly silent body and put her back to the sun; she peered at the tangle of pipes that adorned the walls of the workroom, swayed in indecision for a second, and then swung her great club up again.

"Mother!" Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth, stepped up to the opening Granite-Glinting had made just in time to see her swing at the vibrating pipes. "Mother, No!"

Even mithril is vulnerable to the power of a cave-troll. The pipes dented, and the magic, no longer contained by Celebrimbor's song, danced free.

In the great weave that was Middle-earth, threads straightened, or stretched and creation changed. River spirits, Were-folk and other fey creatures turned a corner and faded from the knowledge of the world, giants and rock-trolls yawned, stretched and lay on the ground to become one with the earth. The last dragon in the mountains screamed his defiance and, turning his shoulder, flew into a new reality, chased by all the wargs birthed in the fourth age. A flying Wight swooped on bat-wings over haunted graves collecting the shades of the unquiet dead; screeching she dragged them to another plane. Spider-kind diminished and became part of the unforgiving dark from whence they came; and deep in the desert of Far Harad the Were-Worm reared its toothed maw from the sand one last time before diving under the baking surface never to be seen again.  Plants became quiescent and spoke no longer to men or elves; even the great eagles lost the desire for speech. The hearts of elves and their kin were wrung; the shifting of the world's rules making homely magic difficult and great magery unlikely until Arda ended.

In Celebrimbor's workshop Stone-Water watched his mother harden into inanimate stone before his eyes as magic drained from the world through the conduit of her club.

"No!"

Stone-Water's anguish translated into movement and he rampaged around the workroom, breaking, tearing, tugging at the construction until he finally stopped the mighty sound and the horn lay in devastation about his feet. In the silence that followed all Stone-Water could hear was the ping of Narvi's ring, Valda, hitting the stone flags on the floor, falling from the dust of her suddenly terminated existence. Anor rose far enough to clear the cave opening and the troll looked dully at where Narvi’s incandescent presence had been. Nothing remained except some light grey dust that shifted, even as he watched, in the breeze blowing in the open mouth of the cavern.

The black thread of Morgoth's will, loosed by the music but unable now to be bound as the great elven-smith Celebrimbor had planned, drifted down to land unevenly over the lands of Arda. The sea became crueller; the forest more dark, compassion was removed from the wind. Mountains that had lost their voices sharpened their avalanches and rivers that were no longer bound by spirits nosed at their banks. Lastly, in the hearts of elves and men, the lies that Morgoth sowed grew a blighted crop of dark fruit, illnesses previously unknown took root in the innocent and discontent festered anew; although the Elves, in an act of grace, were granted, along with the pain, an even clearer call to the home that waited for them in Valinor.

00000

Gimli picked himself up from the ground and gradually became aware of the sound of muffled grief, a hiccupping sobbing that pulled him from the place he had been and moved him mindlessly to the side of his immortal friend. None other stirred in the silent cavern; even the sound of the underground river had faded into the background. Gimli glanced around. Bodies like so many logs lay prostrate on the cave floor. He would deal with that later - Legolas was his concern. The still-burning torches lit his friend's huddled form.

"Legolas?” Gimli laid a warm hand on the shaking shoulder. Legolas sat propped against the cave wall, his head on his bent knees, his arms hugging his legs, his face obscured by the pale curtain of his hair. "Why do you grieve?"

The elf lifted his head and looked at the kindly dwarf with a face stark with tragedy. "Ai, Gimli, it was destroyed before it was complete."

Water welled again dulling the brightness of the elf’s eyes. The archer dropped his head back to rest against the cave wall. "For just such a little space, Gimli," tears ran unchecked down the smooth cheeks to drip off the hinge of his jaw, "I was witness to his song, part of the greatest magic ever attempted by my kind.”

Gimli eased himself down to sit against the wall beside his long-legged friend and leaned against him, keeping his hand on the hitching shoulder beside him. Several retorts occurred to him, none of them very useful at the moment as they all started with 'Fool of an elf'. Sympathy seemed more in order but Gimli was shaken to his own core by the magic that had rushed through them. Legolas fought for control and Gimli waited him out.

"Elbereth, what was that?" Aragorn's voice, although it sounded gravely and cracked, was a welcome diversion from waiting for the elf.

"It came from up that corridor I was looking into," Gimli supplied helpfully.

Aragorn climbed shakily to his feet and then stooped over the still form of the wizard. Satisfied he stood again and cast a sharp glance in Legolas' direction, the elf turned his head to the side and let his hair fall to obscure his features. The King shifted his gaze onto the dwarf who looked as guilelessly at him as he could.

Groans and some curses sounded as the rest of the men started to come to.

Aragorn walked over and then knelt in front of the elf and the dwarf.

"Legolas?" His voice was soft, "Are you well, my friend?"

The elf turned his head to see his friend, pushed the hair back from his face with both hands and tucked the loose ends behind his ears. He looked at the king blankly for a space and then spoke, his voice distant. "It is as if I am suddenly deaf, suddenly blind. I was present for a making, and now I am…” The elf paused, seemed to cast around for a word, sighed and finished, “less."  He wiped the heels of his hands over his face and looked into his palms as if to read the future in the dampness left by his tears. "I am well enough, Estel."

The king placed a sympathetic hand on the bent knee in front of him, and then used the elf's knee as a prop to climb to his own feet again. "Would you look to Radagast then, Legolas? He has yet to stir."

Legolas nodded curtly and started to clamber to his own feet, Gimli's strong hand on his forearm detained him.

"This is not over yet. I am still called." Gimli glanced over to the passage he had been exploring before the note had sounded. "We need to go yonder."

The elf's eyebrows rose in surprise, but after a beat, he patted the dwarf's hand and continued to get up.

"Let Aragorn know. I will follow where you guide.” He walked over to the prostrate wizard and stooped to place a hand on his back. “The world has changed, Gimli.” Legolas sat back on his heels and looked seriously at the dwarf, “And I have a need to see what went on at the end of that corridor myself.”

TBC

Rose Sared

Beta’d with uncommon despatch but her usual skill by Theresa Green. Love her and her writing. Thanks.RC

Evensong Ch 18

The door at the end of the corridor was shut. Even to Gimli’s dark-adapted eye it was hard to discern that it was actually a door and not just another of this twisting warren’s dead-ends.

He ran his hands over the seamless panels, feeling for information, and was thwarted by the craftsmanship. Annoyed, he thumped the stone with the side of his fist, heard the muted echo that spoke of space behind the barrier, and then let all sound die away feeling the tug on his heart pulling him like a thread through cloth. He leaned his forehead against the cold door, eyes shut, concentrating, hoping he was not leading the whole party on nothing more than the urgings of an elderly digestive system.

“Gimli?” Legolas spoke softly from behind him, somehow managing to convey in the single word both his desire to be out of the caves, now, and yet also his resolve to support his friend and follow where he was led.

Aragorn’s voice chimed in, “What have you found, Gimli?”

The dwarf turned and stepped out of the alcove that housed the door back into the wider corridor. His friends huddled in the now yellowish light given out by Radagast’s staff. Gimli blinked in the brightness.

“There is a door – the groove runs to it, and I suppose, through it. The doors are shut now, but for ages, see,” Gimli indicated where the groove finished, shy of the alcove by about an arm’s length, “they must have stood open, folded back to here.”

Aragorn peered at the dwarf, then at the groove and then around the uneasy company. He let his gaze linger for a moment on the elf, who was staring back down the corridor, and unguarded expression of unease marring his fair face.

“Can you open them?” the king asked.

Gimli shook his head, frowning.

“Radagast.” Aragorn singled out the wizard. “When we entered Moria the Hollin gates were shut. Gandalf used some power to reveal the opening code. Think you?”

The wizard wrinkled his forehead. “ The world has changed, Aragorn, I know not what I might or might not do.” The wizard stroked his beard, deep in thought for a moment, and then he looked up again. “Send someone to the main cavern for a torch, Aragorn, I cannot both light and work. Legolas, if you please?”

The wizard beckoned the elf over even as Aragorn nodded to Dervoron who trotted off to the main cavern to bring back a torch.

Radagast spoke to the elf again. “Legolas, would you join me?”

The elf turned eyes that looked huge and shadowed to his friend – then seemed to shake himself out of a black space; gracefully he moved to flank the wizard and the dwarf.

Aragorn touched him on the shoulder, raised an eyebrow in silent query.

“There is nothing now in the dark that is not there in the light, Aragorn. The men will be safe.”

Gimli saw the King’s shoulders relax slightly at the elf’s reassurance.

Gimli turned and re-entered the alcove that contained the doors, Radagast’s staff this time lighting the way.

The wizardly light caught on inlaid patterns in the surface, odd reflecting twirls began to become apparent, a complex writhing knot surfaced into visibility, eventually sparking a border that outlined the double doors.

Aragorn looked between the wizard and the elf.

“Any clues?”

“There is no riddle this time.” Legolas frowned at the doors. “We could try what worked before.”

“Mellon,” intoned Aragorn.

The doors remained shut.

A quadruple sigh breathed around the room.

Gimli walked up to the reflecting pattern and traced part of it with his fingers. So fine was the work that even looking at it he could not feel the inlay work as an irregularity in the surface.

Behind him the wizard tried a string of opening words – to no effect. He stepped back discouraged. Aragorn looked at him.

“I know not whether my failure is due to the changes I feel in the powers that govern Middle-earth, or just because I do not know the right key.” The wizard tapped his staff on the doors. “We may need to find another way in, friend Gimli.”

Gimli, despondent, nodded, distracted by the pattern, it reminded him of the iron work knot his father had made for his mother – a token that hung ever after in his parent’s chamber.

The dwarf glanced around the dispirited faces of his companions and drew in his breath

“Before we give up I have a word to try. “ He looked sheepish, flicked his gaze around the three interested faces, “It is in the secret language.”

He spoke, and the doors swung open in silent hinges, rumbling under their own great weight as they reached their greatest aperture. The bang as they seated themselves echoed and re-echoed in the stony vaults behind and now ahead, of the travellers.

Daylight, dim, but after such a long time underground bright enough to smear Gimli’s vision with tears, pulled the elf into the corridor on the other side of the doorway. Aragorn and Radagast gazed at Gimli for a moment, astonished by his success, and then they followed Legolas, heading for the light like so many moths to a flame.

00000

Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth squatted in the rough tunnel formed by his mother and brooded on the turmoil he felt in the sinew of the range. Rock rumbled far and near, not happy with change, resisting the new order with blind stubbornness. Stone-Water found his emotions in complete accord with the mood of the mountain.

It was all spoiled, his feeling for the rock felt muzzy, his sense of depth skewed, his reason for living, his lodestone, his mother – gone.

Distressed, Stone-Water tapped his club on the floor, despondent. He thought he might just stay here for the rest of his life, guarding his mother’s tomb. He thought that soon, when it was night, he would go back into the horrible bright cave and pull down rocks until the opening was sealed. He thought he might pile up the shiny metal all around his mother and then go find some bones to make a proper shrine. If he could not get enough bones out of the dead thing that was in the cave with his mother he would get some more out of the running things he would catch. Stone-Water banged his club on the floor in decision.

Another bang answered his temper. Stone-Water lifted his head, sniffing. The air currents had changed. Something had shifted, back past the main cave. It sounded like a door opening.

Stone-Water sniffed again. The air spoke to him, the changeable element not much altered by the events of the day; it smelt of the two legs, the shining one that frowned at him, the elf.  The smell wafted off, it had gone the other way. Stone-Water lurched to his feet crept nearer the cavern, silent, among the still friendly boulders.

More came; Stone-Water slid back a step further into the dark.

The wizard, the man and Mossy Rock; Stone-Water could smell them all and a dreadful anger started to rise in his breast. Their piping voices carried a message of doom to the cave-troll. Two leg trouble. Mother had always said stay away from two legs, but they had better stay away from her. Stone-Water was not going to let them near his mother. He moved slowly forward, the light was dimming in the cavern as the sun moved over the mountain. Stone-Water raised his club and stood just in the shade of his mother’s tunnel, where he could see into the still light cave but no one could see him.

Mossy Rock entered the cavern cautiously, he carried an axe; Stone-Water blinked at the bright shine of the metal. When he looked back Mossy Rock was staring at his poor petrified mother, the axe rose, threatening.

In the tunnel Stone-Water raised his club, ready to charge.

The dwarf stared at his mother then grunted, and lowered the axe slightly, called over his shoulder and moved further into the cave towards the opening. The wizard and the man now entered the cave – Stone-Water shut his eyes against the glare given off by the wizard’s staff, squinted and tried to follow the dwarf as he made his way around the edge of the cave.

Stone-Water watched as the dwarf suddenly stooped, snatching something that glinted up off the floor.

“Aragorn, Radagast, look!”

The man and the wizard had been staring at his mother, but now they picked their way over the shards of metal towards the dwarf.

The dwarf saw the dead thing huddled against the wall, hidden until then by the placement of his mother but revealed by the light of the wizard’s staff.

“Over there, there is someone.”

The man moved quickly over to the dead thing, pulled it over, and then gently let it roll back.

“It was an elf. He is gone now, safe in Mandos’ halls.”

The wizard moved his shining staff nearer and then, to Stone-Water’s fury, leant the burning thing against his mother’s upraised and stone knee so that he could use both hands to frame the dead face.

“Celebrimbor,” the wizard said, an ocean of sadness in his voice. The man shifted around, clambering over Granite-Glinting in order to get a better view.

Stone-Water snapped. He charged out of the tunnel swinging his club and roaring. No one should show such disrespect to his mother, and he needed the dead thing for its bones.

The man drew and raised his sword, but Stone-Water did not care, with the hand not holding the club he plucked the man from his mother’s stony knee and flung him behind him.

Stone-Water poked at the wizard with his club, the wizard flashed a bright light at him that stung his eyes and the troll stepped back. Something sharp hacked at his calf muscle. Stone–Water blinked down and saw Mossy Rock with his axe, chopping at him as if he were a tree. Stone-Water swatted the annoyance away and turned back to the wizard. Again the light made him turn away and the chopping resumed.

The troll kicked out at the annoying dwarf, the blow lifting his former pet into the air before he fell and skidded against the cave opening. The sky was too bright for the troll to see what happened to him after that, and he found his movements hampered, as if by some monstrous spider web.

Growling, the troll thrashed round peering for an enemy. The wizard was pointing his staff at him, saying some words that tightened the bonds. Stone-Water flexed his great shoulders and brought his club round in an arc that had momentum all of its own. The staff clattered to the ground and the wizard followed, clutching his arm.

There was a buzz and then a sharp sting in his ear. The troll lurched around again, waving his free hand to swat at the arrows that were peppering him, warding off the ones that would have pierced his eyes.

The elf; his mother had been frightened of the elf.

Stone-Water saw an arrow bounce off his shoulder and into his mother knocking a chip out of her. Another carried off one of her fingers as it rebounded from Stone-Water’s back. The troll roared and lurched at the shining figure that had sprung onto his mother’s petrified arm and was now running towards him, firing a stream of arrows at his head.

“No!” Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth opened his mouth to scream at the elf, tell him to stop defiling his mother, tell him…

At the last moment he met the shining eyes of the creature with the bow; the elf blinked and there was a lifetime’s pause.

Stone-Water could see the trembling force that held the bow at full stretch, could even see the spark that was the point of the arrow as its form wavered in the veil of his tears.

The troll shifted his point of focus over to his mother’s still face; the end of her nose had been knocked off in the fray. He stopped, and then took half a step back. Looked at the elf again through eyes that held no reason to live. Shut his eyes and opened his mouth, tilted his head back slightly, and waited.

“Argh! By the nine fingers of Frodo!”

The cry of anger and frustration that spilled from the elf’s throat was so loud Stone-Water’s eyes popped open again, answering to no will of his own. The arrow still pointed in his general direction but the tension was off the string. Carefully the shining being lowered the point, never taking his eyes off the troll.

“Not make me dead?” Stone-Water asked, plaintively.

Legolas looked at the troll child, looked at the statue that had been its mother, looked at the tears that still trickled unheeded down the troll’s rocky cheeks. He folded himself into a wary crouch on Granite-Glinting’s shoulder.

“No more making dead, Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth. Do you agree?”

Stone-Water raised a hand to touch his mother one last time, ignoring the sudden retargeting of the arrow

Stone-Water looked over the elf’s shoulder to the huddled shape of the man against the back wall of the cave, glanced sideways into the watchful eyes of the wizard who was clutching his injured arm but following the conversation, thought about Mossy Rock who was somewhere behind him. Looked last at the dead thing, kin of the shining elf in front of him thought that the elf might be sad, as he was sad. Stone-Water-Worn-Smooth thought he would go and sit under the mountain in the proper dark and think about these things for a long time.

“I go.” He said, at last, and then shuffled around his mother and stomped out of the cave and into the fastness of the labyrinth.

In the sudden silence Legolas heard a groan from Aragorn, and as he vaulted down from the petrified cave-troll he saw the wizard struggling to his feet. The elf headed towards the fast dimming cave opening because, from Gimli, he heard no sound at all.

TBC

Theresa excelled herself, thank you my dear. Two chapters to Beta in a week – heavens! RC

Evensong Ch 19

The shadows of evening that gathered in the workroom fled to the corners as the entrance was filled, belatedly, with the soldiers of Aragorn’s guard, sent to bring torches mere minutes, or a lifetime, ago. The ringing sound of swords being drawn echoed against the stone surfaces as Dervoron and his troop saw the shape of the troll.

Legolas took his eyes from Gimli’s unmoving form just long enough to face the oncoming soldiery, “The troll lives not – look to your liege.” He gestured abruptly to Aragorn where he lay against the wall on the far side of the room, stepped over to relieve one of the men of his torch, and then turned back to the dwarf, dismissing the guards from his mind.

He crouched beside his friend, grateful for the fresh breeze that blew into the cave. Hardly daring he reached out to touch Gimli’s shoulder, hesitated, and then smoothed a silver lock of hair away from his friend’s cheek instead.

“Gimli?” Legolas called softly.

The wavering flame from the streaming torch painted the dwarf’s face in gold, its moving light tricking the eye, making it impossible to see if his friend breathed. Certainly his eyes lay shut and blood marred his forehead, trickling from a cut above his hairline. The wind from the outside smelled of night and rain, and it lifted the stray silver hairs on Gimli’s beard.

Legolas glanced around; men surrounded the king, and Radagast was directing another two to move Celebrimbor’s body. The wizard held his left arm braced against his body with his right hand.

Legolas sighed, leaned the torch against the wall and gazed longingly at the light from the first stars that danced in the deepening night. He breathed, and then scooped his friend’s limp form into his arms and rose to his feet in one fluid movement. Turning with his burden he headed for the main corridor.

“Legolas?” Radagast called to him.

“I must tend him. Will you follow, with Aragorn?”

The wizard read the strain and some of what Legolas was holding back in the set of the elf’s immobile face, held his eye for a beat and then nodded, once, releasing him. Legolas turned again and vanished into the dark of the corridor that led to the door.

00000

Aragorn, having been thrown forcibly against the unyielding wall of the cave and subsequently suffering from bruising that marred the right side of his body from abraded shoulder to swelling knee, did not really come to his senses until well into the morning of the day after the horn had been blown, despite the healers insisting that he be roused at hourly intervals to check his head injury.

He woke after a blissful hour or so of sleep to pain and a head that felt like a lead weight.

“Drink, Sire?”

Aragorn sniffed at the beaker and then swallowed the acrid brew, eager for its analgesic properties. He sipped gladly at the beaker of water offered as a chaser blinking at the bodyguard whose muscular arm propped him up, and then turning his head carefully to scan the inside of his tent. After a pause he asked, “What happened, Dervoron? I feel as if a rock fell on me.”

“Cave troll?” Dervoron prompted.

The king closed his eyes again with a groan, the events of the previous day flooding back. Eyes still closed he asked, “Radagast, Legolas, Gimli?”

The silence that followed forced Aragorn’s eyes wide open. “What?”

Dervoron gently laid his king back into freshly plumped pillows, moved his chair so that the king could see his face and then seemed to find something very interesting to look at on the knee of his breeches.

“Captain?” Aragorn could tell the news was not good, but he needed to hear it. “Report.”

Dervoron snapped his head up and met his commander’s eye. “Radagast the wizard, Sire, has a broken arm. The healers have set it, and he is out yonder,” the captain waved a hand to the north, “ fixing up a pyre for the elf we found in the cave.”

“And the lords of Ithilien and Aglarond?”

Dervoron returned to inspecting his knee. “Missing, Sire.”

Aragorn tried to sit up, groaned as the effort made the tent dim around him, and then used the sudden support granted him by Dervoron’s lunge to help as an excuse to clutch at the man’s shoulder with a grip of steel, “What do you mean, missing?” he hissed.

Dervoron gently pried the fingers from his shoulder and once again attempted to make the king comfortable. Aragorn was out of energy, but not out of determination, his blazing gaze assured the Captain he needed to provide more information.

“The lord Legolas, he carried the lord Gimli out of the cave first, Sire. We thought he was ahead of us on the way out, it was not until we reached camp that we realised they were not part of the greater party.”

“Where are we?”

“Camped in the combe below the caves, Sire. Healfred moved the tents up after the orcs vanished yesterday. Earnulf is back in the caves searching, even now, Sire. We anticipated your concern.”

Aragorn subsided slightly, his pained body reminding him he was not up to arguing with command decisions he agreed with anyway.

To his chagrin he realised he must have drifted off to sleep again; the painkillers, he thought muzzily. The sound of challenge and counter challenge outside of his tent was what roused him this time. He forced reluctant eyes open to see Dervoron, moving towards the tent flap.

Aragorn swallowed and called out. “Get them to bring the report in here, Captain.”

Dervoron turned a look of deep disapproval on his liege. Aragorn sent his best kingly glare back. The captain nodded, not willing to argue.

Summoned by the Captain, Earnulf entered the tent, doffed his helmet and bowed to Aragorn. The King finished wriggling himself into a more tolerable sitting position, with Dervoron’s silent help, and then turned his attention on the Rohirrim.

“Did you find them?”

Earnulf blinked, looked at the bump made by the King’s feet under the blanket and then swallowed.

“Nay, Sire, ” he risked a glance up but Aragorn’s face was stony. “We searched all the way back to the cave with the spell on it, Esgarth showed me how to get through the wall bit and we went along the passage – but it came to a dead end, Sire.”

Aragorn frowned, intensifying the expression as Sarthor the healer slipped into the tent quietly, glanced at his patient, and then busied himself with some potion on the other side of the tent. Aragorn dismissed the interruption and turned back to Earnulf. “The doors were shut?”

Earnulf shrugged, “We could find no doors, Sire. Nor could we find sight or sound of any other being even though we searched a goodly portion of that maze of caves.”

Aragorn held the young man in his gaze for a moment, and then waved him off with a flick of his fingers.

“Thank you, Earnulf. It seems that I need to go back into the caves myself, to open the doors.”

Aragorn, to Earnulf’s palpable dismay pulled back the bed covers and went to swing his legs out of the bed. The young guard stepped forward and Sarthor was suddenly there, his lips thinned in carefully schooled annoyance. Aragorn paused as his feet hit the ground.

“Damn!” The King’s soft voiced complaint coincided with the colour draining from his face and a sweat breaking out on his brow. Both of his hands went to cradle his swollen knee that was protesting being bent with some vigour.

Sarthor was beside him even before Dervoron, scooping up his legs and placing them back on the bed.

The king tried another-‘I am not amused’- look on the healer. It bounced. “Balrog’s balls, Sarthor. You could have warned me.”

“You would not have listened.” The healer was unrepentant, twitching the covers straight across the royal lap with professional efficiency.

Aragorn, still sweaty from the sudden agony, had no energy left to argue. He looked plaintively at the Rohirrim.

“Would you go back in, this afternoon? Ask Radagast to go with you, he knows the word that will open the doors.”

Sarthor offered the king a vial that contained a virulent green potion. Aragorn eyed the man and then downed the contents in one gulp.

“It could be a day or two before I will be able to join you.”

Earnulf caught Dervoron’s eye, read the dismissal in the captain’s expression, and bowed deeply. “I will report back again this evening, my lord.”

Aragorn, his eyes glazing over, simply nodded.

0000

Gimli, observing the elf and his actions from some disembodied place that appeared to be set in the ceiling of the cave, let out a growl of annoyance.

A gentle hand wiped across his brow, soft as down and as cool as dew, the image, or viewpoint or whatever it was, faded into mist and Gimli twisted to look into the forest-deep eyes of the lady sitting beside him. Lady seemed too faint a word to describe her presence. Once more Gimli knew he was in the keeping of a Vala. Since he was once again in Aulë’s hall he supposed he was in the presence of Yavanna.

“Why are you vexed, my champion?”

“The fool elf was carrying me around, again,” Gimli blurted before he could edit the thought.

A tiny crease pulled up at the corner of the lady’s mouth. “He is very fond of you.”

Gimli looked down, took a second to enjoy the rich red colour of his beard, let his eye catch on the blue stone in the ring that now sat on his middle finger.

“If I am here, am I truly dead?” Gimli lifted his eyes to those of the lady, her gaze shifted slightly from his.

“That is a matter of choice, yet, my son.”

“Whose?”

“Ah.” The male voice that joined in was familiar to the dwarf. He turned his head to the left and saw Mahal, his lord, sitting in his marble chair, a thoughtful expression on his noble face. “Weighing up one thing and another, Gimli, Gloin’s son, it might be yours.”

Gimli sank back to the floor, groaning. Looked up at the misty sparkling heights of Aulë’s hall remembering every injury he had sustained lately and in the past, feeling this wonderful completeness, feeling his age. The unfamiliar weight of the ring sent a pulse from his finger up his arm.

“The ring,” said Gimli. “I picked it up just before Stone-Water attacked.”

“The ring,” Yavanna agreed. She brushed a finger over the blue stone. “It is keeping you alive, just, in Arda, because you wish to stay there, with him.”

Gimli found himself looking down again from ceiling height. Legolas had found some homely chamber within the mountain equipped with a south-facing window. The elf had made up a pallet and put the dwarf down. Gimli could not see his own body for the elf hunched over him, however Legolas’ back was eloquent with grief and fear. Oil lamps cast a warm glow over the scene but the long hand Gimli could see holding his own was as white as spray.

“If I keep doing this to him he will fade anyway and join us, righteously annoyed, my lord and lady. He is frail enough from resisting the summoning of the lord Manwë, and would hate to be forsworn. His oath to stay with Aragorn he clings to with stubbornness to match any of the Eldar past or present.”

The Valar shared a glance over the dwarf’s head, perhaps thinking of elves, and oaths. Yavanna turned her head to look once more at Gimli.

“Tell me of the ring, my lady.” Gimli didn’t feel like he had much to lose for being pert.

“Valda, her name is Valda, Worthy, in common. She was Celebrimbor’s gift to his great friend, Narvi.” Yavanna placed a finger on the blue stone and drew its radiance to herself.  “The ring cleaves to dwarf-kind and has never fallen under the influence of the great betrayer. Narvi used her to sustain Celebrimbor throughout the days of Sauron’s rise and fall, Narvi used her to heal Celebrimbor of his death wound so he could finish his great work of revenge.” Yavanna looked past Gimli to Mahal. “Those great feäs have fled home to Valinor and are joined with us now; but Valda remains, the last magic ring in Middle-earth. She can still draw on my power to heal, but at a cost to all the many lives great and small that fall under my care. As ring bearer she will let you live as long as you have a will to do so. She is a great treasure; and in the wrong hands the last great threat to your world.”

“And if I choose to stay with you now?”

“You are both here only in spirit. Like you she is more than spirit, she is matter. If you stay now she will remain in Arda, hidden in the mountain for any hand to find, or stored in the treasury of Gondor or Aglarond until her provenance is forgotten and she is freed into the world to work mischief.”

“And if I return to Middle-earth again, to life, to pain?”

“You could bring her to Valinor, come over the sea with your friend when his vow is discharged, the first of your kind to attend our halls in your mortal form, pass the ring into our safe keeping. Third time pays for all, Gimli.”

It was no great matter to decide. Gimli simply gazed at her trusting the lady to read the clear decision of his heart; and then suddenly he had a thought.

“How on earth do you think I will be able to convince that fool of an elf to let me sail with him?”

The hall faded away on the susurration of the Valar’s laughter.

“You always did enjoy a challenge, son of Gloin.”

TBC

Thanks for the Beta Theresa – I promise a bigger gap before the next chapter – lol.

Evensong Chapter 20

One night, such a bitter morsel of time when measured against the banquet of his life. Legolas perched in the cave opening watching the stars wheel overhead before dawn painted grey across the sky, fighting his fatigue. The mountain wind moaned its way across the pinnacles, matching his mood to their pitch.

Behind him the caves sucked at his spirit, the blacker mouth of the forced tunnel mocking his vigil. At least he had sealed the other entrance. The doors had made such a racket closing that he had darted back to the sleeping chamber to check if Gimli had roused.

Once again his hopes, only half formed, had been in vain. The dwarf lived, but nothing more. Not a glimmer of that vibrant personality lit the body on the pallet.

The elf felt like every kind of fool. It had seemed so clear, Gimli thrived in caves, and he would heal in these caves better than out of them. The elf, shaken by his encounter with the cave-troll, overwhelmed by the sudden crowd of men, had allowed the confusion that had left them behind. Hastily he had carried Gimli into the living quarters he had explored briefly before joining the others in the workroom. And he had been left alone, in blessed peace.

Peace, that crept like time, moment by moment into nothing.

Gimli’s wounds were extensive. Legolas had peeled him out of leather and armour, sponged blood from abrasions and bruises. Winced at the deep purple stain that marred his muscled torso, the legacy of a cave troll’s kick. The elf had purloined a soft wool robe from an ornately carved clothes press. Wrapped his friend in its comfort and laid him on the bed. Sat with him, sang to him, exhorted him, cried.

Legolas listened to the star song; it was as measured, distant and beautiful as ever. Eternal and unmoved by the concerns of those that lived and breathed. Worlds could end and still they would sing.

The elf wished his world could end, but it would not. He could not remember when last he had slept, or ate, or walked unfettered under the sun. His mind spun on, considering the endurance of elves. Alone in the dark he snorted in derision.

His breath still flowed, his heart still beat, his flesh - he held up a long fingered hand, examining joint and sinew - his flesh was unchanging and would remain so. Ending was not an option for him, continuing seemed near impossible. The sea tugged at him, reminding him of alternates, muted still by the grace of Radagast, but then all of his contact with Arda seemed muted after yesterday. Something had changed; perhaps it was in him after all

The star song faded, drowned by the jubilation that heralded the dawn. Legolas turned his back on the silvering sky and slipped back into the dark. Gimli may have stirred.

00000

Gimli woke to the benison of warm sun on his face and, after a beat, grinding pain. It felt as if some beast was gnawing on his insides. His breath hitched and caught, an involuntary attempt to control the agony, and in an instant there was someone beside him.

“Gimli?” Legolas voice sounded raw. “Gimli do you wake?”

The dwarf prised open his eyes, drank in the sight of his friend kneeling beside his bed, a hand reaching for his forehead with a cloth. Gimli curled himself slightly to one side in the bed, let his left hand slide down over his middle, and rested the ring on the source of his distress. He blinked, the pain eased. Legolas dabbed at the sweat on his face with a cloth that felt nearly as cool as Yavanna’s hand.

Gimli felt his breathing even out again. He studied his elven friend as he turned to wring the rag out in a bowl he had ready beside the bed. Legolas looked pale, forlorn, his eyes were faintly pink-rimmed and his lips pale and thin as he concentrated. The crease that sometimes appeared between his brows looked permanently etched there now.

Gimli inched his right arm away from his body, crept it out of the bedclothes and curled his hand around Legolas’ bicep. He really did not feel up too much speech right now, but he needed to reassure the elf.

Legolas looked down at the contact, met Gimli’s deep brown eyes with his own glittering blue, blinked at the sudden tears that caused the room to swim unsteadily before him.

“Lad?” Legolas blinked at Gimli’s rusty voice. “ I will not leave you, now or ever. Rest.”

Legolas felt his chest tighten on an involuntary sob, controlled it with the last remnants of his will, turned eyes of fire onto his friend, only to find Gimli’s eyes shut again. The dwarf had drifted back into sleep, still holding onto his arm.

Legolas tucked the limp hand back under the blanket, and then stood suddenly, feeling faintly nauseous but also as if he had removed something from his back; a dead weight perhaps. Air from the open windows kept the chamber fresh, but he found himself longing again for trees, and grass. He took a step towards the window, but then stopped, listening.

Voices. So muffled he could hardly discern them. Silently he drifted to the door of the chamber, cracked it open to the cold breath of the mountain. There, the faint sound of men, from down the passage with the doors. The doors he had shut.

Legolas sighed. Aragorn would have sent a search party. He should go, open the doors, let in the noise and bustle and stench of men.

Legolas leaned against the door’s frame, all the energy gone from his body. He looked over at the dwarf, sleeping peacefully, thought about waking him, moving him, carrying him through all the twists and jagged turns between this place and the outside.

Gimli had said he would not leave him. Fever speaking, but words some part of his own soul had seized on as truth, no matter what cold sense and millennia of experience told him.

He had never caught the dwarf out in a lie. He would let it be, for the moment.

The voices of men faded, went away. Legolas felt a twinge of guilt Aragorn would worry. The elf knew he would eventually keep his word to the king, but Gimli needed him now, and the king had more than enough helpers.

Legolas thought about Gimli’s words again, shut the mountain out of the chamber by pulling the door to, and then wandered listlessly back to the dwarf’s bedside. He sat, completely at the end of himself. He felt Anor bathing his back in comfortable warmth and, like a stick whirling in a flood, was drawn by his utter exhaustion into the path of dreams, folding gracefully in boneless relaxation into the seductive gap left between Gimli’s feet and the end of the mattress.

00000

Radagast’s breath caught as he opened the chamber door cautiously, revealing the pair of them back-lit by the now setting sun.  Neither sprawled figure moved at his intrusion and the wizard felt his heart clench.

“No!” he whispered.

Bleak despair dimmed the Maia’s light, and Earnulf, treading on his heels pushed the door roughly more open so that he could see.

Earnulf favoured action over despair.

“We have found them,” he called over his shoulder to the other four members of the squad, and then he clattered into the chamber with all the energy of a spring storm.

In an eye-blink the elf was awake, and crouched over his friend like a mother cat with one kitten, ivory-handled knife in hand.

Radagast, his spirit inflating as quickly as it had constricted, stepped in between the startled guard and the still sleep-sodden elf.

“Legolas, friend. We were worried.”  The elf looked at him through eyes that were only half in this world, then their depths cleared as a familiar rumble reached all of them from Gimli.

 “Fool of an elf, can you not tell friend from foe without me pointing it out?”

Seeing the smile that stole over the elf’s face was worth any momentary pain the wizard had suffered.

Casually the elf sheathed his knife, and then turned to fill a beaker from a jug that stood ready nearby. Silently he offered it to the dwarf, who took it, and even allowed the elf to prop him up so that he could sip the water. They both made no comment on the fact that it took both of Gimli’s unsteady hands to hold the beaker.

Radagast stared, fascinated, at the ring with its blue stone that Gimli wore on the middle finger of his left hand. The wizard could feel its power from across the room.

Earnulf moved over to the window and pulled it closed, shutting out the now freezing breeze. He cast a look over to the elf and the dwarf then called Esgarth to his side and directed his sergeant to set up a camp in this room. It was apparent that they would not be moving for an appreciable length of time and the room sported a fireplace as well as a scuttle full of fire-rock. Esgarth settled happily to meal preparation and one trooper was detailed as guard, the other two settled quickly, veterans enough to take ease where it was offered.

Radagast took a turn about the room, drawn to the row of books. One lay open on a polished desk. The blocky Dwarvish runes finished half way down the open page.

Radagast kindled the oil lamp set in an alcove above the desk and flicked through the pages, reverently.

Legolas arrived at his shoulder, “Narvi kept records. Do you read the runes of Moria?”

Radagast smiled up at the elf. “Slowly, but Narvi had a fair hand and see,” the wizard pointed to a section in quite a different hand, the elvish script flowing slantwise across the page. “Celebrimbor added his tale to the mix.”

“Here hold this for me” One of the wizard’s arms was snugged against his body in a sling so he handed the book to Legolas to shut and re-shelve and then picked another, the first bound tome, for Legolas to lay open on the desk.

The wizard leaned forward as the first lines became clear. “Ah,” he breathed. “ She stole his body from the orcs. How small a flicker of life she must have nursed.”

“Aye, “ Legolas spent a moment remembering the gruesome tale of Celebrimbor’s close-mouthed end, of Sauron’s revenge. Celebrimbor’s body carried as a banner on a pole in front of Sauron’s minions. Imagined Narvi’s stout, loyal figure as she tracked him, and recovered his body, no doubt thinking she would be honouring a corpse only to find the spark of eternal life still flickering in his breast. “I wonder how she kept him alive.”

Radagast tapped a long bony finger on the book. “It will be told in here, no doubt.”

Legolas bent to flick through the pages, but Radagast turned to find Gimli’s silent gaze fixed on him. The wizard drifted over to the dwarf’s bedside, Gimli slid the ring around his finger with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“You can see her, wizard?”

The wizard nodded to the ring and was answered with a similar gesture from Gimli

“Aye, and feel her power, Gimli.”

“Legolas does not.” Gimli turned a supplicating look up to the wizard’s kindly, seamed face. The Maia raised a surprised eyebrow and turned again to examine the elf, who was temporarily lost in Narvi’s diary.

“That is – unexpected.” The Maia stroked his beard with his good hand, bristling eyebrows drawn together in thought.

Gimli reached up and laid his left hand on the Maia’s injured arm. His eyes seemed to look inward for a second, and then there was a pulse of power from Valda, followed by a strangled moan from Gimli. As pale as death the dwarf fell back against the pillows, and Legolas jerked up from the book as if he had been stung.

“What have you done to him?”  Legolas was suddenly at the wizard’s side – a murderous gleam dancing in his eyes.

Radagast held up both hands in protest, and then looked at his hitherto broken left arm in surprise. Quickly he stripped off the sling and rubbed his right hand down his left forearm.

He exchanged a glance of deep bafflement with the elf, and then they both turned to look at Gimli, who moaned and blinked his eyes open again.

“That was probably not wise,” he gasped.

Legolas sat down on the side of the bed and peered into his friend’s face. Gimli sighed, and then flicked a glance up to the wizard.

“While I was unconscious, before you came, I had this dream…” The telling of his visit with the Valar took all of the time left before Esgarth announced dinner.

TBC

Final Beta by Theresa Green, my grateful thanks for your expertise and patience, you are a gem, my friend.

Evensong 21

Gimli wrestled with Valda for the best part of a day as the wind blew piebald shadows across the plains of Rohan.

She had some very definite urges, this magical band, and she was proving stubborn about who was in control.

Gimli hunched into himself, wedged as he was in the corner of the healer’s wagon jolting at walking pace back to Aragorn’s first camp site under the eaves of Fangorn. The domed canvas cover of the wagon sucked and flapped in the wind; a corner caught up on itself and tucked into a rope stay, revealing a small triangle of the outside.

Gimli watched the tossing trees going by until it seemed the forest was moving and the wagon stationary. He had no glimpse of the elf or the wizard since this morning and he was worried about Legolas. Absently Gimli twisted the ring around his finger. He was not used to the feel of her yet, any more than she was used to him.

He sighed; the noise echoed the hissing of the wind through the forest.

“Are you well, Gimli?” Aragorn’s voice lifted him from his introspection and turned him to look at his friend, the king, who occupied the pallet on the other side of the wagon bed.

Gimli guiltily shook himself out of his thoughts and turned his attention to Aragorn. He was supposed to be keeping him company, not mooning over things he could not change.

“Nay, lad, I am fine.” Gimli shifted so that his back was to the view, “How fares your knee?”

Aragorn eyed the offending joint with regal disfavour. “It feels perfectly fine, unless I try to bend it, and then it shrieks and carries on like a fractious child.” Aragorn gave his leg a final glare and then hitched himself up on an elbow and around so that he could see Gimli, “And your head?”

Gimli waved a dismissive hand upwards. “A scratch, another to add to the collection; my middle is a little stiff and I had no intention of jouncing around on the back of that demon-spawn Legolas rides until it eases. You did me a favour by requesting my company this day – churlishly though I have repaid your kindness.”

Aragorn shook his head at his friend; calling on diplomatic skills honed over years to conceal the labyrinthine plotting that had gone into the invitation so that the dwarf would ride with him this morning and have a chance to heal rather than insisting on either riding or walking back to the original camp. He allowed himself a flash of interior amusement; it seems he could have just offered and been accepted.

“A coin for your thoughts then, Gimli. What burdens you?”

Gimli looked at Aragorn feeling as full of strangeness as a hive is of bees. “A coin would be wasted; it is merely that I am conflicted.” He slid the ring around his finger with his thumb, and then looked up at his friend again. “The ring would fix your knee for you, and she pesters me that I have not offered.”

Aragorn looked at him for a long beat, his face unreadable, and then he looked at his leg again.

“And you did not offer because…?”

“Her healing is not free, it comes with a cost.” Gimli glanced at the king and then back at his hand.

Aragorn shifted, leaned forward to see his old friend’s face, “And you are not yet hale. I am sorry, Gimli. I should not have pressed you.”

“Nay,” Gimli looked up his eyes wide, locked onto Aragorn’s gaze and held it. “To me, pah! What is a bruise? Nay, it is not I who pays the debt.” The dwarf waved an expansive arm to include the forest the plain and the company. “I healed Radagast without thinking, or at least it was not me who was thinking. But it was me who felt the tearing, like a few hairs pulled unwary from a head. A mouse died for Radagast’s arm, Aragorn. What will be sacrificed for your leg?”

“Ah.” Aragorn lay back on his seat, and then smiled at the dwarf in rueful understanding.

“Would you like me to heal your knee, Aragorn?” Gimli looked squarely at the king, his honest face both troubled and wise. Of a sudden he reminded Aragorn of Mithrandir, who also understood the burden of power and the constant struggle for balance.

“Nay, old friend,” said Aragorn, after a second, “it is healing of itself and will but pain me for a week or so. Let it be. It is a reminder that I am not quite as limber as I was in my youth.” Aragorn shook his head, “I am sorry for your burden, Gimli. I think I even understand. Come to me, friend, should carrying it get too wearisome, and I will share with you my struggles with the palantir.”

Gimli looked deep into Aragorn’s eyes, thinking of the pain and responsibility Aragorn had shouldered for most of his life, a life only fifty or so years shorter than Gimli’s own.

“Aye, lad, my thanks, that is an offer I shall cherish.” Gimli sat back again so that he could see out of the wagon.

Aragorn looked at the dwarf for a few more moments, watching as he fiddled unconsciously with the ring, an artefact Aragorn could not see with his eyes open, but could feel in his soul with his eyes shut; a ring of power indeed and Gimli another ring bearer who would be worthy of the challenge.

Aragorn lay back and tried to relax, the constant ache from his knee had kept him awake for most of last night, now the rocking wagon soothed him into sleep even as he thought about the crystal ball whose siren call always tempted his honour with its limited visions of the truth.

Gimli, hearing Aragorn’s breath even out into the cadences of sleep, bridged the small gap between the pallets with an extended arm and lay one cautious finger on the wool cover above Aragorn’s knee.

Feeling rather as if he had the reins of a green filly in his grip, he allowed the smallest trickle of healing to flow from Valda into the swollen joint.

He paused, breathed, felt for the web of life he was draining, pinched off the power before it could cause harm, and then flopped back onto his own bed, exhausted and covered in sweat, his arm trembling as if he had quarried a whole seam of rock.

Valda subsided, mastered and content; but Gimli spent the next hour staring at the rippling canvas over his head, wondering for the first time in his long life, just who and what he had become.

00000

Legolas asked Ascallon to race the wind and like a raw filly she bucked twice, and then stretched her neck, galloping towards the horizon as if she could launch herself into the tattered sky. Her master, her friend, flowed along her back like so much air, his golden hair mingling with Ascallon’s own grey mane. Yielding, at length, to the gentle suggestion of her rider’s thigh, Ascallon veered towards the limitless trees, the rising ground making her dig deeper, run harder, glorying in her speed and strength.

For some time they followed the forest edge, the changeless trees and the ever-young elf on his white horse. It was a moment out of time and Legolas felt as if he was a woven figure in the background of some great tapestry, hung in an elven hall. Ever moving, ever in this moment.

Ascallon slowed and Legolas allowed and encouraged her to do so; his horse was mortal and by no means young.  Legolas let her drop to a satisfied canter and eventually to a springing trot. The trees sang to the elf, now he was far enough away from the babble of mortal minds to hear them. They sang of air and sun and change.

Ascallon, hearing no argument from her master, slowed to a meditative walk and started looking hopefully at the lush grass that flowed up to the trees like so much hair.

Legolas patted her neck, “Soon, my friend. Walk for a while longer, and then you may graze and roll to your heart’s content.”

Ascallon shook her head and snorted but obeyed, trusting her master’s wisdom. Legolas smiled, strangely comforted by his horse’s unquestioning compliance. The elf guided his mount into a shallow valley and finally dismounted at the edge of a tumbling stream. Ascallon shook like a dog, nose to tail, and then waded in to drink her fill.

Legolas slaked his own thirst, upstream, and then sat on a boulder to watch as his horse rolled and rolled in the lush river grass. Finally Ascallon hauled herself to her feet and wandered over to blow sweet breath at her elf.

“Wait here for me, if you please, Ascallon. I must go and see what change has been wrought in the forest, the song is new even though the trees make me feel young.” The elf rose gracefully to his feet and turned to the trees, “ I will return, friend,” and with that he ran lightly to the tree line and swung into the canopy, vanishing into the leafy warren.

00000

Treebeard let the balm of Wellinghall pour over his spirit even as the cascading water poured over his body and upraised arms. His forest was not as it had been, not ever, not even in its youth.

Treebeard had spent the last three days striding through the hills and vales of his domain, to find all different and strange.

Huorns lay mute in huddled glades, yet the ents of his company, even Bregalad who had ever been lively and quick, now sprang about with new energy, talking to rabbits and blue jays where before they would have scorned converse with such ephemera. Bregalad was even organising an expedition, a journey outside of Fangorn, to find the Entwives. Hah, he was just a sprig, to have such dreams.

The trees, ah now, the trees, they sang a song. They wove something new between them under Middle-earth’s ancient sky, something that spoke of destiny and independence. It was only beginning but Treebeard could hear no echoes of ents in its notes.

Treebeard moved from the refreshing shower into his great hall, waved his green light jar into radiance and paused to wonder that this small magic still worked. The trees that flanked his home no longer glowed, the echoes of the river spirits no longer ran in the forest water, but his jars still granted him light. Treebeard frowned at them. It was very puzzling. Outside the night settled gently on the forest like a feather, the wind died and the blazing stars lit the gentle dark.

Treebeard ladled a portion of entdraught into a bowl and sipped, watching the evening fade through the wavering screen of the waterfall. He sipped again. At the very end of the avenue that led to his home he saw a glow, a soft white light, as if a star had alighted on the grass. Treebeard sang an ancient welcome, and the glow approached, singing descant to his rumbling bass. An elf? Here? The shining creature slipped through the curtain of water.

“Legolas. Would you drink with me this eve?” Treebeard watched the elf for a second or two, and then turned and ladled a goodly portion into one of his small bowls. Legolas bowed to the ent over the rim of the bowl, and then drank.

“Welcome to my home, Legolas, Prince of Ithilien.”

“Well met, Shepherd of Trees.”

Treebeard peered at the elf, looking for levity, found none and turned instead to place his bowl on the high table. “My flock has gone feral, if I be a shepherd still, elf. Have you not listened to the song?”

Legolas held the ent’s gaze, and then sprang up to sit himself on the lip of the table. Gently he placed his own bowl beside Treebeard’s. “It is a wonder to me, eldest, that so ancient a forest can bring such novelty into the world. All day I have explored your leafy halls, and the trees have sung to each other, but not to me. Their branches do not spurn me; I feel no malevolence in their indifference. The wood still holds its beauty, the leaf its life. But the trees no longer pay attention to this elf.”

“Nor this nor any other ent, youngling. It is not a punishment for your kind alone. The world has changed.”

Legolas’ eye glittered in the green glow of the jar. “Is there a place for us, in this changed world? Think you Ithilien would still benefit from the protection of elves?”

Treebeard shifted from foot to foot. “Has evil fled completely?”

Legolas thought of Gimli’s wounds, of the cave-troll’s fate, of Aragorn’s silver hair and Arwen’s doomed beauty. “Nay, evil is still with us, eldest. Changed in form but not in substance.” Legolas drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs for comfort. “I still oppose it.”

“Then your forest will take the benefit, Prince of Trees. A song may be embellished even if the tune is changed. The work is its own end, and if it wearies you, the land of the Valar will still welcome you. The straight road will remain open to song even if the instrument is novel.”

Legolas bowed his head but said nothing. After a pause the ent shuffled his feet.

“ Hm, hoom, little leaf, my drink has risen to my head and I must sleep. I will go stand under my waterfall. Would you like the bed?” The ent waved his hand over another large jar and a soft golden light complemented the green glow, so that the light was like the evening sun through leaves, playing and flickering on the ceiling. Legolas felt the ent drink curling around his insides like his father’s finest wine. Sleep in this enchanted place would be better than good.

“It would please me, eldest, and thank you. You give me hope.”

“Hm, hope, say you? The ent stood in the doorway catching the water spray in upraised hands. “In the morning you must tell me of the magic that is still in the world. I can feel it, tugging at me. It tastes of your friend the rock-delver, Gimli. How is it that elf magic should sit so aptly on one of the dark dwellers, Legolas? You owe me a long tale I think, Hm, Hoom.”

Legolas lay himself down on the soft grass and fern that padded Treebeard’s bed and allowed himself to drift on the path of dreams, and the light of the bright stars seemed to combine with the drips of water flowing over the rock floor to forge for him a silver path of peace.

I think I will end Evensong here.

It has been a fun journey, but the story of how Gimli comes to terms with Valda, and Legolas comes to terms with Gimli and his demand to sail, and why Aragorn only stayed in Middle-earth for another ten years is starting to feel like another of my twenty chapter tomes. If there are any really annoying loose ends tell me and I will try to answer your question in the next tale. The next tale is a long story really, and I am not that keen to get to the end of it.

Thank you, every one of you, especially those of you who have reviewed Evensong  as it has been posted, but not forgetting the even more of you who have read it to this point. Please feel free to contact me with story ideas or brickbats; I love to hear from you.

Humbly yours,

Rose Sared