A/N:  This story is a mixture of book and movie verse, though I try to stay true to the book as much as possible.  In that spirit I have used J.R.R. Tolkien’s own dialogue at the appropriate places (yes, this means I get to use the “Fool of Took!” line).  Those places are marked with references to the page where you can find them in the Master’s own work.

I refer to the movie mostly for action sequences and character description.  I’ve also given Legolas two knives, rather than the one he carries in the book.  It makes sense to me that an archer would carry his blades at his back, as he could then transfer between arrows and knives faster than if he had to draw the knife from his hip.

Many thanks to my beta reader, Angel, who stayed up late to critique this chapter.  Hope it was worth it.

Disclaimer:  I make no claims on Tolkien’s world, other than the pleasure of playing in it once in a while.  I’m borrowing his characters for a while, but I promise to be nice and to return them unharmed.

In the Deep Places

By Lamiel

“There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.”

                                                            -- Gandalf, A Journey in the Dark

                                                             The Fellowship of the Ring

Chapter 1:  Rock and Stone

Legolas did not like caves.  He avoided them whenever possible, and now, as the echoing dark closed around him, he felt his dislike deepening into true loathing.  The stronghold that his father had built in northern Mirkwood was a necessity, a last refuge against the growing shadow to the south.  Yet even in the face of Dol Guldur, most Wood-elves stayed above ground.  They made their homes in the flets around the king’s fortress, trusting Elvish senses and warrior skills over cold stone walls.  Only the most dire of circumstances would force an Elf to shut himself off from the song of the stars and growing things.

And what are these circumstances, if not dire?  Legolas thought grimly.  Six hours had they been wandering the cold labyrinth of Moria, and Legolas felt near the breaking point.  Thranduil’s keep might be below ground, but every effort was made to bring light and air into the Elven refuge.  The fortress was built into a great hill, and windows were cut in the stone wherever possible.  A cunning system of vents brought fresh air and the whisper of tree-song into even the deepest places.  There was no room without some breath of life, and plants and vines were brought inside, fortified by Elvish spirit even in the absence of natural light.  The stone walls were softened with rich tapestries that depicted the forest above, and every pillar was carved in imitation of the trees that were the Elves’ true home.  Even the cellars had shafts to allow access to the deep-running river, so no part of the stronghold was completely cut off from the outside world.

But the builders of this Dwarven kingdom clearly had no such regard for Elven sensibilities.  Legolas walked with eyes wide open, straining to pierce the darkness that closed in on all sides.  He stretched all his senses to their limits, but there was no breath of fresh air, no hint of light from sun or stars.  Very dimly he felt the whisper of the plants that clung to life above, but they spoke only of shadow and fear, and they grew fainter with every step he took deeper into the Black Pit. 

The holly trees at the gate had had stronger voices, not yet forgetting the Elves that planted them long ago.  But they had been destroyed, uprooted and smashed down by the Watcher in the water.  Legolas mourned their loss.  The trees had marked the closest point that Elves had ever come to Moria, for the caverns had no memory of them.  Wood-elves had no affinity for stone, but Legolas could occasionally hear its voice, if Elves had been there.  Less distinct than the song of living things, but there was a resonance that remained in Elvish lands, even after the people departed.  But here there was nothing.  The Company walked in Shadow, and death plagued their steps.

He could hear the sluff of Mithrandir’s robes as the wizard led the way with their only light.  The creak of Gimli’s chain mail marked the Dwarf’s heavy steps alongside the Maia.  Much softer came the patter of bare feet as the Hobbits followed.  Behind him, Legolas could hear the swish of Boromir’s heavy cloak and Aragorn’s steady tread as the Men brought up the rear.  Both Men had been soaked in the battle against the Watcher, but they had not taken time to change into dry clothes.  Legolas wondered at the wisdom of this, for he knew that mortals were likely to take sick if they were chilled for any length of time.  Still, he told himself, the Men had proved their strength on Caradhras.  They had pushed themselves to their limits to get the Hobbits safely off the mountain, and they remained hale, though Boromir had developed a congested nose.  Surely the damp clothes would not slow them down overly much.  This was some comfort to the Elf, for in truth he would have begrudged any delay.  The Company was doomed to take the dark road, it seemed, and he wanted to finish this stage of the journey as soon as possible.  Mithrandir had said that it would take three days to reach the other side, and Legolas did not know if he could tolerate so long a time without free air and light.

The atmosphere was musty, choking and close about them.  The faint currents that breathed from the passages and caverns they passed were cold and lifeless.  The air of southern Mirkwood had a similar stifling quality, Legolas knew, but there was also the constant murmur of the trees and growing things that welcomed the Wood-elves, even in Shadow.  There was no life here.

There were more concrete dangers than the utter blackness and death whispers that pressed around them.  The floor was uneven, occasionally dropping several feet without warning and covered in loose rubble.  There were gaping crevasses in the walls and floor, and they soon would have come to grief had it not been for the illumination of Mithrandir’s staff.  Not even Legolas’ eyes could pierce the shadows around them without some light.

Ahead of him, the wizard checked suddenly and threw out an arm to stop Gimli beside him.  Pippin walked straight into Mithrandir’s back, and earned an exasperated glare as the wizard turned back to the company. 

“Might give a little warning,” Pippin muttered to Merry as he rubbed his head.  “I got Glamdring’s hilt right between the eyes.  All those robes, and I hit the one hard edge!”

“I think there are plenty of hard edges to Gandalf,” Merry whispered back.  “Keep your eyes open next time, and maybe you can avoid them.”

Legolas heard the Hobbits clearly, but Mithrandir ignored them as he looked over the rest of the Fellowship.

“Now we come to the first serious check in our path,” he said.  The road had widened a bit, to the point where perhaps five men could stand abreast, and Mithrandir stepped aside so that they could see what he meant.  The Hobbits crowded forward, but Legolas stayed where he was and looked easily over Gimli’s head.  A chasm greater than any other they had passed opened before them.  It was at least seven feet across, and a fathom deep or more.  Far below Legolas could hear the sound of water, and the creak of a great wheel turning. 

Aragorn and Boromir came up beside him.  Boromir was surveying the crevasse with a furrowed brow.  “What now?” the Man muttered.  “The Hobbits cannot possibly jump this gap.  Do we turn back and seek another road?”  Aragorn exchanged a look with Legolas and sighed softly.  Legolas could guess the Ranger’s mind.  It would take hours to backtrack to another road, if they could find one, and there was no guarantee that a different path would not also be blocked.  Aragorn did not look happy at the prospect, but he was resigned.  Legolas, however, could not view the possibility of delay with such equanimity.  They might spend days in futile wandering from one obstacle to another, or they might exceed the range of even Mithrandir’s memory and become so lost in the labyrinth that they never found their way out.  The thought was enough to make Legolas’ heart pound and his breath catch in his chest.  He turned away from Aragorn and moved past Gimli to the edge of the pit.

Legolas pressed his boot against the rock at the edge, trying to put weight on it as a Man might.  “This edge is stable,” he said, trying to keep the note of desperation from his voice.  He eyed the other side carefully, selecting a spot that looked relatively free of loose rubble.  He took two steps back, then sprang forward and leapt the gap easily.  He landed lightly on the other side without shifting the loose rock in the slightest.  Legolas could hear the Hobbits gasp in surprise as he turned back to the company and smiled.  “The rock is solid and will not give way.  If we had a rope, we could fashion a bridge for the Hobbits to walk across.  We need not be delayed.”

“Rope!”  Sam muttered.  “I knew I’d want it, if I hadn’t got it.”*

But Aragorn moved forward and shook his head.  “Even with a rope, our problem would be the same.  We are not Elves, Legolas, and the Hobbits cannot walk an Elf-bridge.  We must find a way to all jump this crevasse, or turn back.”

Legolas felt near panic at this idea.  Clearly the endless tomb of stone was taking its toll already, for he had forgotten the limitations of mortals.  Chattering in the back of his mind he could hear his father’s voice: Weak.  Untrustworthy.  Will you place your faith in these?  They limit you.  With an effort of will he cut off the voice and thought firmly: They, at least, have kept their wits better than I.  Shall I betray them at the first checking point?  I could not survive this place without them.  He ignored the memory of the Redhorn Gate—had you all been Elves, you would not have needed to turn back.  You would not be in this place at all—and tried to focus on the situation at hand.  For all their foundering in the snow, the mortals had proved themselves more than capable on Caradhras, and they were clearly far better able to cope with the Mines than Legolas was.  Indeed, he feared that they might be forgetting the limitations of Elves.  Even the Hobbits looked willing to backtrack as Boromir had suggested, and the possibility of hours or even days longer underground did not trouble them excessively.  Legolas clenched his jaw and forced back the bile that rose at this thought.  The Perianrim had proved themselves capable of greatness.  Surely, surely this jump was not too much for them.

“Perhaps our Strong Men might carry them across,” he said, forcing a light note into his voice.  “The rock will hold your weight, and the Hobbits will not add much to it.”  Aragorn and Boromir exchanged doubtful glances, and Boromir, the heaviest of them all, moved forward and stamped upon the cliff edge.  “The rock might hold,” he said finally, “but . . .” his eyes shifted to Gimli.

Legolas could have screamed.  So close!  The Company had nearly agreed to his plan, only to be foiled by the Dwarf.  He looked to where Gimli stood with stocky legs planted firmly apart, leaning against his axe and surveying the pit in grim silence.  He could not argue the point – Gimli weighed nearly as much as Aragorn, and the Men could not possibly jump the gap while carrying him.  Certainly the prospect of turning back would not bother the Dwarf – he probably welcomed the excuse to spend even longer in his beloved Mines.  And the additional torture to Legolas would be an extra treat, so far as Gimli was concerned.  In that moment Legolas agreed with every curse his father had ever heaped upon the Dwarves, and he could have added some inventive ones of his own. 

He took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the Dwarf.  Sensing the look – an Elven stare was difficult to miss, after all – Gimli looked up and met his eyes.  This was not an easy thing to do, and Gimli clearly looked unhappy at it, but he did not look away.  Normally Legolas would have averted his gaze.  He had been reminded more than once that the direct look which an Elf took for courtesy made mortals uncomfortable, but at the moment he could not have cared less for the Dwarf’s comfort.  He was thinking. 

Men often underestimated Dwarves, and Gimli might not have such a difficult time with this gap as Boromir believed.  But the Dwarf would not risk harm to the Hobbits, and would likely turn back without attempting the leap rather than allow them to jump with the Men.  Despite the stamina they had displayed on Caradhras, Gimli clearly believed Men to be weak in comparison to Dwarves.  He likely feared that they would drop the Hobbits.  As if in confirmation of this suspicion, Gimli turned to Boromir (thereby conveniently breaking eye contact with Legolas).  “There is good rock here.  But more than rock must hold.  We cannot afford a misstep, and the Hobbits would put you off balance.  We should backtrack and find a safer road.”  His voice was as deep and steady as ever, but Legolas caught the glint of his eye as he glanced back at the Elf.  The Dwarf clearly knew what even a few hours delay would do to Legolas, and he was enjoying the prospect.

Boromir, however, seemed to interpret the Dwarf’s remarks as an attempt to avoid the jump without loss of face.  He nodded and called to Legolas, “Come back, Master Elf.  We must seek another way.”  He settled his shield against his back and turned away.   The Hobbits were whispering together as they looked from Legolas to Boromir, and even Mithrandir looked resigned to backtrack.  Aragorn gave Legolas a sympathetic look, but moved aside as if making room for the Elf to land next to him.  “We will soon find a safer path,” he said.  “Come, Legolas, it will not take long.”  But Legolas heard the note of uncertainty in his voice.  Aragorn was committed to this plan for the Company’s sake.  But he could make no such promise, for his knowledge of the labyrinth did not extend so far.  And Gimli was now watching the Elf with an open smirk.

Legolas ground his teeth.  Ordinarily he would have sought a diplomatic way to make them see reason, but the endless dark, the weight of stone above, and the desolate silence where Ilúvatar’s song should have been were fraying his nerves past all attempts at reason.  His plan would have to work without diplomacy.  “It seems that the Fellowship cannot see the strengths of its members,” he cried, and ignored the crack in his voice.  “Our doughty Men will not drop the Hobbits, as they proved once before, Master Dwarf.  Or has your small wit forgotten the events of only a few days ago?  Rather it is you who show weakness.  Your legs are too short to make this jump, and you make us wander hours, or days, out of our way for your sake.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to intervene, but was prevented by a low growl that came from Gimli.  The Dwarf’s hands were clenched on the haft of his axe, and his eyes were murderous.  “Clearly the dark has taken your wits, Master Elf.  This little hole is nothing to a Dwarf of the mountains.  I’ve crossed gaps twice as wide, in my father’s mines.  But others of this Company have not been so fortunate.  Rather say that you are afraid of the dark, and would risk the safety of the Fellowship in your cowardice.”

“Indeed,” hissed Legolas, and his hands tightened on his bow.  “And yet I say again, all the Fellowship has a method of crossing this chasm, save you.  Your excuses prove little save that you are afraid, and insult the others to hide your fear.  And if I be wrong, then come here and prove it to me!”

“Prove it!” Gimli snarled.  “Aye, I shall prove it, with the edge of my axe!”  The Dwarf backed away from the chasm ten or twelve paces, gauged the distance, and then ran for the gap.  “Gimli, no!” Aragorn cried, but the Dwarf was beyond hearing.  He launched himself at the edge and sailed over the chasm, his legs drawn up and his axe held high even as he leaped.  He landed heavily on the other side, staggering at the very brink of the crevasse, his arms pin-wheeling madly as he fought for balance.  Legolas sprang forward and grabbed one flailing arm to steady the Dwarf. 

“Leave off!  I need no help from an Elf!” Gimli snarled as he regained his footing.  Legolas promptly dropped his arm and the Dwarf slipped on the loose shale at the cliff’s edge, but kept his balance.  He stepped forward determinedly, axe at the ready, but found that his opponent had vacated the battlefield.  Legolas lost all interest in the argument the moment Gimli landed safely on the other side of the chasm, and instead turned back to the rest of the Fellowship.  “It seems that the Dwarf, at least, has been underestimated.  What now of our Strong Men?  What Dwarves can leap Men can manage, and the Hobbits are not too great a burden.”

Mithrandir was watching him with a knowing gleam in his eye, and Aragorn too looked as if he knew he was being manipulated, and did not like it.  But now that Gimli had gained the far edge of the chasm there was little they could do.  For all his bravado, the Dwarf had barely made the leap, and they would not risk him jumping back again so soon.  Boromir, at least, looked frankly astonished that the Dwarf had made it at all, but after a moment he shook it off.  “Well,” he said, “it seems that the choice is made and we must go forward.  Now it is time for Men to do their part.”  He turned as if to pick up Frodo, but the Hobbit held up a hand. 

“No,” the Ring-bearer said, and there was a note to his voice that made them all turn to stare at him.  In the dim light of Mithrandir’s staff Legolas could see that the Hobbit’s face was set in thin lines.  “Legolas is right.  Our strengths have been underestimated.  Hobbits aren’t as small as you think.”  With that Frodo backed well away from the edge, took a deep breath, and then ran forward.  Boromir moved to stop him, but Frodo ducked under his arm and raced faster.  An instant later he launched himself into the air, and only the keen reflexes of the Elves allowed Legolas to leap forward and catch him as he came down on the other side.  The impact nearly knocked Legolas over, but he caught himself and steadied them both.  He even noted, with some amusement, that Frodo had actually managed the jump with more success than Gimli.  The Hobbit did not have Dwarven strength, but neither was he weighed down by Gimli’s heavy chain mail.

Legolas set him down and straightened his cloak.  Frodo was breathing heavily, but his eyes were shining.  “A great jump, Master Frodo,” Legolas said.  He would have added something about Hobbits besting Dwarves, but he could feel the heat of Gimli’s gaze behind him, and a slight creaking noise told him that the Dwarf was adjusting his grip on his axe.  Gimli had not yet forgiven him the insults he had used to goad the Dwarf into crossing the chasm, and Legolas had no desire to provoke him further.  At least, not until the rest of the Company had crossed over safely.

He turned to look at the rest of the Fellowship, and nearly laughed aloud.  Boromir’s face was blank with astonishment, Aragorn was grinning widely, the rest of the Hobbits were staring at Frodo in amazement, and Mithrandir actually laughed.  “Ah,” he said, “this proves my point.  Even after a hundred years, Hobbits still amaze me.  We shall be careful not to underestimate them in the future.”  With that the wizard lifted up the hem of his robes, backed up a few paces, and then ran for the edge of the cliff.  He landed heavily next to Legolas, and the Elf reached out a hand to steady him.  Mithrandir shot him a look that Legolas could not interpret, and then stepped away.

“Well,” said Sam slowly, “we ought not to overestimate Hobbits either.  That’s still a mighty big drop, and I’ve got a lot of baggage here.”  There was a clank of pans as Sam shifted his overly large pack.  Boromir seemed to come out of his shock and chuckled a bit.  “I’ve no doubt you could manage it, Master Samwise,” he said.  “But perhaps if you permit me...”  At Sam’s nod, Boromir bent down and lifted the Hobbit, baggage and all.  He shifted Sam to a secure position and then backed a good distance away from the chasm.  He breathed deeply a few times, then ran forward and leaped the pit.  He was overbalanced by the Hobbit’s weight, and might have fallen as he thudded down on the far edge, but Gimli and Mithrandir together steadied him.

Merry looked from Sam to Frodo to Aragorn and back at Frodo.  “There’s no shame in asking for help, Merry” Aragorn murmured.  His voice was soft, but Legolas heard it.  And he caught the look that Merry gave him.  “No,” the Hobbit whispered, and then he straightened himself.  “But there never yet was a Baggins that could beat a Brandybuck for jumping.”  With that Merry took a breath and ran for the edge.  He sailed straight into Boromir, and nearly knocked the Man down as he was recovering his balance after landing with Sam.

That left Pippin, and the young Hobbit was looking from his cousins to the dreadful gap with something akin to terror.  His eyes were huge, and his face was deathly pale.  Legolas was beginning to regret his previous words.  He had intended to prod Gimli into action, but he seemed to have stung the pride of every member of the Fellowship.  Certainly he had never meant to encourage the Hobbits into reckless behavior.

But it was too late for regrets, for Pippin was moving.  He closed his eyes for a moment and whispered, so softly that Legolas scarcely heard him, “for Tuckborough.”  Then he ran for the edge and jumped.  He did not aim for any specific landing place and kept his eyes shut as he crossed the gap, and consequently smacked into Mithrandir and nearly impaled himself upon Glamdring.  “Oof!” the wizard grunted as Pippin hit his midsection and knocked the wind from him.  Legolas was smiling at the fearful look that Pippin gave the wizard when he felt Aragorn land heavily beside him and automatically reached a hand to steady the Man.

Aragorn gripped his arm brace in return, and Legolas turned to look at him.  He felt his smile fade at the steely look that the Ranger turned on him.  Mithrandir and Gimli were moving forward, the rest of the Company falling into line behind them, but Aragorn held Legolas back.  “That was foolish,” he hissed.

Legolas stepped back and pulled his arm from Aragorn’s grasp.  “Indeed?” he said coolly.  “And yet the Company has crossed the chasm, and is safe, and we have prevented a delay of hours, perhaps days, to our journey.  Is that so foolish?”

“Things might not have gone so well.  If Frodo had slipped . . .” Aragorn trailed off with a shudder.

“He did not slip.  I think that you do underestimate the Hobbits.”

“And you risk the safety of our entire mission!  A delay of a few hours would not be an unbearable hardship, but you would rather have us take foolish chances than seek a longer trail.  Perhaps Gimli was right.  Perhaps the dark has affected your mind.”

Legolas took a step backward in shock.  Insults from the Dwarf were one thing.  They were to be expected, and he had planned on them when he’d started their argument.  But to hear it from Aragorn . . . the one person he had expected to understand . . . and indeed, he thought bitterly, mayhap he understands all too well.  I cannot abide this tomb, and I risk us all to escape.

“Perhaps you are right,” he managed after a moment.  “But there is more than just the darkness here, Aragorn.  There is evil in these stones, and evil watches us now.  Every moment we delay, it draws closer.  Can you not feel it?  A delay of a few days, or even a few hours, would be far more dangerous to our Quest than this crevasse.  Would you risk that?”

Aragorn studied him a moment, then shook his head slightly.  “I do feel it, as does Gandalf, as does even Gimli, I think.  But evil has haunted us since we began, and evil sought us even in the forests of Hollin, but you did not react then as you do now.  I admit that your senses are keener than mine, and I trust them, but you must admit that more than that troubles you.  I think you should consider that your discomfort in these caves might affect your judgment.”

Legolas turned away and closed his eyes, struggling to think past the initial sting of the Man’s words.  “In Hollin,” he said softly, “the trees knew me.  They did not remember Elves, but they were still friends, and they warned of danger long ere it came near.  But here,” his voice was a near sob, “there is nothing.  No voices, no song, not even to despair in Shadow.  There is only silence, and the taste of death.”  He was silent for a long moment, struggling to regain his usual composure.  He could feel Aragorn behind him, a warm presence at his shoulder, but beyond that there was only the cold dark of Moria.  He took a deep breath.  “I will compensate for . . .” he waved one hand vaguely to indicate the barren darkness around them “for this.  But do not think to dismiss my counsel.  I still perceive more than you do, Aragorn, above or below ground.”

“Aye,” Aragorn said softly, the anger gone from his voice.  “I value your insight, as always.  But you might consider this, mellon nîn.  We are a Fellowship for a reason.  Each of us has his own strengths.  In the forest, the weakness of mortals was balanced by the strength of Elves.  But here, the failings of Elves are countered by the strengths of mortals.  Do not scorn the insight of your companions, Legolas.”

Legolas bit the inside of his cheek, holding back the sharp words that came in response to this piece of advice.  His nerves were frayed and his temper short, but Aragorn did not deserve his anger.  The physical darkness was laced with a deeper Shadow, and for all his claims of mortal strengths, Aragorn was affected by it.  He had been raised by Elves, after all, and Legolas suspected that the endless stone and dark weighed more heavily on Aragorn than on any other member of the Company save Legolas himself.

So he held himself absolutely still until he had mastered his irritation, then turned back and met Aragorn’s eyes.  He nodded slightly, and the Man smiled.  It was now getting very dark as Mithrandir’s light moved away from them, and already the far side of the chasm was blurring into indistinct shadows.  Legolas stood aside to allow Aragorn to precede him, and the Ranger moved forward, one hand grasping Andúril’s hilt.

Legolas followed, holding his own weapon close.  He had not unstrung his bow since they had faced the wolves after Caradhras, and he could feel its humming tension beneath his hand.  This matched his own mood, for now that the crisis of the crevasse was past he could feel the menace around them more clearly than ever.

He held back a bit as they walked, allowing Aragorn to draw further ahead of him.  He was trying to determine the exact nature of the threat that he felt so strongly.  Every now and again he would stop entirely, every sense alert, as he struggled to separate the very real danger from the illusory shadows that pressed in on him.

A great malice brushed the edges of Legolas’ awareness and sent a bitter chill of foreboding down his spine.  He grasped his bow tightly and scanned the shadows around them.  He could not see much in the absolute dark, but his Elven eyes still perceived more than those of the mortals around him.  He strained to pierce the depths of the crevasses and caverns that they passed.  He breathed deeply of the dead air, trying to catch the scent of whatever foul creatures now claimed the Dwarven realm.  He softened his own light tread and passed silently over the loose rubble as he listened intently to the echoing silence around them. 

Very faintly he caught the slight patter of flapping feet behind them, just slightly out of step with the Company.  Gollum.  He would have to warn Mithrandir and Aragorn, if they did not already know.  But at the moment the slinking creature was of no concern to him.  There was greater evil here than the footpad would account for. 

Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to get away, get out, get out!  And yet he forced himself on.  The stones had no memory of growing things, and the very air laid the bitterness of iron on his tongue.  His heart pounded fiercely, and his bow was slick in the sweat of his palms.  Every fiber of his being cried out to fight, to run, to counter the evil that grew stronger with every step.  And yet there was nothing there.  With no threat visible, and no enemy to fight, Legolas moved deeper into the roots of Caradhras, and was afraid.

*~*~*

* The Fellowship of the Ring, A Journey in the Dark, page 406 of the authorized 1970 Houghton Mifflin Company edition.

Perianrim:  A group of Hobbits

mellon nîn:  my friend

Coming soon:  Gimli's turn.

A/N:  I have used Tolkien’s own dialogue in several places here, in an effort to preserve the spirit and intention of the Master’s work as much as possible.  However, at times I have substituted my own words as necessary for the pacing and tone of this sketch.  You can find the real version in The Fellowship of the Ring, A Journey in the Dark, page 407-409 of the authorized 1970 Houghton Mifflin Company edition. 

Again, many thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Angel.

Disclaimer:  This is a work of fan fiction, set in the marvelous world created by J.R.R. Tolkien.  No infringement or disrespect is intended.

Chapter 2:  Echoes of Doom

They had been walking for nearly eight hours when Gandalf finally called a halt.  They had reached a wide dark arch, with three passages branching away before them.  All traveled east, the left hand passage plunging down, the right going up, and the middle going straight ahead.  Gandalf stood with his staff raised, shining light before them, and frowned.  “I have no memory of this place,” he murmured.  They stood for some moments, watching the wizard, and Gimli could see the Hobbits exchange doubtful glances.  Finally Gandalf shrugged and turned aside.  “We are due for a rest,” he announced, and led the way into a small room away from the three passages.  “We will gather strength, while I remember our course.”

Gimli was grateful, though he never would have admitted it.  Even the legendary endurance of the Dwarves had been tested by the long march in the dark.  The room was small, a guard’s alcove no doubt, with the remains of a well in the center.  There was but one entrance, and Gimli felt immediately secure with the solid stone at his back.  The Hobbits sighed in relief as they dropped their packs and immediately began searching for foodstuffs.  Sam simply dropped to the ground where he stood and closed his eyes.  He had insisted on carrying the bulk of the baggage they had unloaded from Bill, and Gimli wondered if he weren’t now paying the price.  Certainly the Hobbit looked ready to sleep where he sat, and might have done so, had Pippin not pushed him over in order to dig the salt out of his pack.  Gimli smiled at that and resolved to transfer some of the weight from Sam’s pack to his own.  He could unload some of the heavier items while the Hobbit slept, if necessary.

Satisfied that the Hobbits had dinner well underway, Gimli turned his attention to the rest of the Fellowship.  Boromir was watching the Hobbits with weary amusement.  Gandalf was sitting on a loose pile of rock, his staff propped next to him, a faint light still emanating from the tip.  The dim light cast the wizard’s face into a maze of shadows and emphasized his craggy features.  His eyes glinted brightly, however, as he gazed at something behind Gimli.

Gimli bent down to unpack his bedroll, using the movement as an excuse to turn a bit and see what Gandalf was looking at.  Aragorn was seated against the far wall, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes half closed.  He looked weary, but alert.  Gimli knew of the tension between Aragorn and Gandalf over the choice of path.  One would have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind to miss it, really.  But the Ranger had acquiesced easily enough when the road over Caradhras had proved impassable.

Still, Aragorn was clearly not at ease, and for all his relaxed posture his hands were never far from the hilt of Andúril at his side.  Gimli wondered if the Man were thinking of his previous journey along these paths.  Aragorn had offered no details of that piece of his past, but clearly the memory troubled him.

A slight movement in his peripheral vision caught the Dwarf’s attention, and he sighed.  Aragorn had a look of wary alertness, but the Man was positively slothful compared to the Elf beyond him.

Legolas was tense as a whip.  He was nearly pacing, taking a few steps to one side, then the other, then holding himself absolutely still and listening with a look of intense concentration.  Alone of the Company he had discarded neither his pack nor his weapons.  His eyes were wide as he peered around the small alcove.  Gimli watched as Merry approached with some trepidation and offered the Elf a bit of the bread and dried meat that the Hobbits had unpacked.  Legolas glanced down at him with an air of distracted impatience and shook his head briefly.  Then he turned away and stared intently at the entrance to their chamber.  Gimli couldn’t imagine what the Elf hoped to see out there – with the only light here in the room with them, the entrance was an impenetrable black chasm.  Merry, for his part, looked at Legolas a moment longer, then shrugged and carried the Elf’s portion off to eat himself.

Gimli smiled a bit and went over to the pile that the Hobbits had made to claim his own dinner.  He took his fair share of the meat and bread, and also snagged some of the dried fruit that Sam had been hoarding.  He ignored Pippin’s look of dismay and with a sense of immense satisfaction he carried his food back to his bedroll and settled down to eat, with one eye still on the archer.

He had not forgotten Legolas’ earlier insults.  More than that, he suspected that the Elf had been manipulating him all along.  Certainly Legolas had achieved his goal, for they had all crossed the chasm, though the sensible thing would have been to backtrack and find another path.  The Elf had an uncanny ability to get under Gimli’s skin, but in this most recent case Gimli suspected that his natural responses had been used against him.  He had been goaded into abandoning all common sense, and the rest of the Fellowship had followed suit.  It was to be expected that they should follow him, Gimli thought, for Dwarves were natural leaders.  He must remember his responsibility to the Company.  The others were looking to him for guidance here, in his natural environment.  He was more at home in the vast caverns than any of the others, even Gandalf.  The Elf’s words demanded retribution, but there was a time and place for everything, even vengeance.  He would be more careful in the future.  He must not allow Legolas’ increasingly irrational behavior to put the others at risk.

He supposed that the dark was taking its toll on the Elf.  They were much enamored with dancing in the moonlight, it seemed, but had not the stamina for real night as it came to the deep places of the world.  Truth to tell, Gimli himself was not terribly comfortable with their surroundings.  Returning to Moria was a dream held by all Durin’s kin, but the echoing caverns, devoid of any sign of life, wore on Gimli’s spirits.  Where was Balin?  Had he even made it past the doors?  It seemed more and more likely that he had not.  This place was a tomb, a mausoleum of all Dwarven hopes and ambitions.  It seemed fated that the Khazad were ever to be driven from their homes, hounded and scorned by other races.  Let the Elf shiver and jump at shadows.  Moria was lost to all Durin’s folk, and if the doom of the Dwarves caused the Elves some discomfort, it was a small justice. 

Gimli was pulled from these dark thoughts by a sudden, echoing clang that seemed to ring from the very depths of the earth and reverberate through all the echoing caverns around them.  He jerked in surprise.  The sound was of a sharp, small plunk that bounced from wall to wall and grew through repetition in the shadows.  To Gimli’s experienced ears the echoes gave a very clear impression of the sheer vastness of the labyrinth around them, and in his mind’s eye he could see the endless tunnels, the great halls and stretching pillars.  The sound grew fainter and more distorted as it passed away through the dark, but it took a long time to fade.

Gandalf, Aragorn, and Boromir were on their feet; Frodo, Sam and Merry whirled around to stare, and Gimli followed their eyes to the center of the room.  Legolas, already on edge, had leaped forward at the noise and caught Pippin by the wrist.  He held the Hobbit upright, nearly pulling him into mid-air.  His face was unnaturally pale and strained, and one of his long white knives glinted in his hand.

“What’s that?” demanded Gandalf. 

Pippin was in no condition to answer.  He was pale with shock, and it looked to Gimli as if Legolas had half-wrenched his arm from its socket.  After a moment the Elf loosened his hold, setting the Hobbit gently on his feet and stepping back.

“Forgive me, young Master Took,” Legolas said.  He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.  “I saw you investigating the well, but I did not expect . . .” his voice trailed off and he took a deep breath.  When he opened his eyes again they were calm.  Whatever emotion he had felt was gone, or at least well hidden.  “You startled me,” he finished quietly.

That was an understatement if ever there was one, Gimli thought.  He resolved to keep a closer watch on Legolas for the duration of their journey through Moria.  Elven reflexes and cave-induced paranoia did not make for a good combination.

Pippin seemed to have gotten his breath back, though he stared at the Elf with wide eyes.  He was massaging his right wrist and appeared a bit shaken.  “No, it’s all right, Legolas,” he managed at last.  “I shouldn’t have, I know that . . . I was just curious, and . . .”

“And what?”  Gandalf came forward, eyebrows bristling, and Pippin quailed.

“I dropped a stone in the well,” he whispered miserably.  “I know I shouldn’t have, but –”

“Quite right you shouldn’t have!”  Gandalf exclaimed.  He glared at Pippin, and the Hobbit dropped his eyes and shifted nervously.  “Fool of a Took!  This is a serious journey, not a Hobbit walking-party!  Throw yourself in next time, and then you will be no further nuisance!  Now be quiet!”

They were all quiet, listening intently.  Gimli was just beginning to relax when Legolas drew a sharp breath and turned toward the well.  Then Gimli heard it: a faint knocking from the depths, the tom-tap of metal on stone.  For an instant he was back in the forges of his childhood, feeling his father’s rough hands over his own small fingers as he grasped the heavy implements, the song of Dwarven smith-craft all around them.  He listened transfixed for a long moment, then gradually the knocking died away and the last echoes faded to silence.

“That was the sound of a hammer, or I have never heard one,” Gimli said softly.  He was surprised at the weak timber of his voice.  The hollow sounds were a mockery of the sound of Dwarven industry that he had so longed to hear.  It was as if the ghosts of Durin’s folk, slain here so long ago, sought remembrance in the very echoes.  But whatever signaled now did so with ill intent, and Gimli was badly shaken.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “and I do not like it.  It may have nothing to do with Peregrin’s foolish stone; but probably something has been disturbed that would have been better left quiet.  Pray, do nothing of the kind again!  Let us hope we shall get some rest without further trouble.  You, Pippin, can go on first watch, as a reward.”  With that Gandalf wrapped a blanket around himself and settled against the far wall.

The others seemed to take this as a cue, for the other Hobbits arranged their usual sleeping pile with some sympathetic looks toward Pippin.  Sam was asleep almost instantly, and the others soon followed.  Even Boromir was soon laid out under his cloak, one hand resting on the horn of Gondor at his side.

For his part, Gimli looked to Aragorn.  Pippin had been foolish, and the Dwarf could appreciate the justice of Gandalf’s sentence, but surely they would not leave the Hobbit to keep watch all alone?

But Aragorn did not seem to share his misgivings, for the Man had set his pack near Boromir’s and was clearly preparing to sleep.  Gimli made his way over to him.  Aragorn had stretched out on his side, but he propped himself up on one elbow at Gimli’s approach.

“What is it, Master Dwarf?”

Dwarves were never ones for roundabout inquiries, and Gimli got straight to the point.  “We cannot let him stand watch alone.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows.  “He is a capable watchman, and we are close at hand.  None of us will be sleeping too deeply this night, Gimli.  Pippin will serve.”

Gimli scowled.  “I do not doubt his ability to sound alarm should the need arise.  But even the best warrior cannot leap instantly from sleep to battle.  We must have a trained fighter on guard as well.”

“Even the best warrior cannot fight without sleep, Gimli.”  Aragorn sighed.  “We are all weary . . . of the shadows, and there is evil here . . .”  His voice was so soft that Gimli could barely hear it, and he seemed to have forgotten the Dwarf standing over him.  Then the mood passed, it seemed, and he smiled slightly.  “We must sleep, Shadow or no.  But fear not.  I do not think that Pippin will stand watch alone.”

Gimli turned to follow the Ranger’s gaze, and saw Legolas still standing near the well.  The Elf had discarded his pack and sheathed his knife, but his bow was in his hands and he stood alert and tense, his head cocked slightly as though listening.

“He will not sleep tonight,” Aragorn said softly.  “I wonder if he sleeps at all during this march in the dark.  He will be your guard, Master Dwarf, and the wearier for it.  All the more reason for the rest of us to sleep well, and be fresh tomorrow.”

Gimli stepped back as Aragorn lay down again.  He stood a moment irresolute, and glanced from the Ranger to the Elf.  Legolas was clearly watching and listening with all his might, and had probably overheard their conversation, soft as it was.  But the Elf gave no sign, and never took his eyes from the dark entrance to their small chamber.

Gimli huffed to himself as he moved toward his own bedroll.  Aragorn might trust to the guard of an Elf, but he was after all a Man and might be excused for such foolish notions.  Gimli was a Dwarf, and the Elf had nearly attacked a member of their Company in a fit of nerves.  Gimli settled himself against the wall and propped his axe close at hand.  He folded his arms across his chest and studied the archer in the faint light of Gandalf’s staff.  Granted, he had proved himself a capable warrior during their journey thus far.  As much as he might dislike the Elf, Gimli had to concede that much.  Despite his attachment to that flimsy bow and those ridiculously light knives, Legolas had fought well against the wolves when they came down off of Caradhras, and again in the fight against the Watcher.  But the endless stone and darkness were clearly taking their toll, and Gimli had no intention of leaving his companions’ lives to the care of an increasingly edgy Elf.  They would be safe, he thought, for Glóin’s son was on guard.

*~*~*

A/N:  Many, many thanks to everyone who reviewed.  Coming soon, Chapter 3: a return to Legolas’ POV.  Angst, angst, angst!

A/N:  As always, this was greatly improved by the support and advice of my beta, Angel.

Disclaimer:  I don’t own Tolkien’s world.  It owns me.

Chapter 3:  Reflections of Immortality

Legolas was aware of the Dwarf’s scrutiny, but he ignored it.  Like the soft patter of the footpad that came faintly from the outer caverns, the Dwarf’s stare was unimportant.  The surrounding sense of malice had grown ever stronger in the past few hours.  It beat upon him, seeming to press against him in suffocating waves until he could hardly breathe. 

The need to move, to fight, was nearly overpowering.  Legolas held himself absolutely still, not trusting himself to move, lest he break.  He might have injured Pippin.  As it was, the young Hobbit was shaken, and his wrist would bruise.  Legolas had been so keyed up, so hyper aware, that he had reacted to the threat without thinking.  Only the realization that the sound had come from below them, out of range, had prompted him to drop his bow and draw a knife instead.  Had he drawn an arrow, as was his first instinct . . . Legolas shuddered.

He had been trained from earliest memory to be a warrior.  The growing Shadow in Mirkwood permitted no other choice.  Without the power of a Ring, the Wood-elves needed every member capable of stringing a bow to defend their home.  Through a combination of necessity and personal temperament Thranduil had raised his seven sons with a military discipline foreign to the other Elven realms.  Natural Elven playfulness was tempered by duty, and his father was ever critical, ever demanding.  Legolas’ grandfather and two eldest brothers had been lost, along with two-thirds of Mirkwood’s forces, in the Last Alliance.  It was a lesson that the family never forgot.  Even Legolas, who had not been born until the Third Age, felt the loss on a keen personal level. 

Thranduil had survived his grief only by channeling it into a relentless drive for perfection, from himself, from his sons, from his people.  A warrior must never make a mistake, must never slip, for such an error might be fatal.  And Thranduil’s sons were held to an even higher standard, for there was always the chance that they might be called upon to assume command of Mirkwood’s forces, or even the rule of the kingdom itself.  In the Shadow over Mirkwood, Elven immortality could not be taken for granted.

So it was that family discussions revolved around military strategy, and affection was expressed most often through correction and criticism.  The greater Thranduil’s pride and love for his sons, the more stringent were his demands upon them.  In Legolas’ case, natural talent had blended with iron discipline to make him the most gifted archer that Mirkwood had ever seen.  And this in turn raised the bar of Thranduil’s expectations, and more, Legolas’ expectations of himself.

An Elf might be joyful or sorrowful, mischievous or melancholy, playful or solemn, or any combination thereof.  But always, always there was control.  A Wood-elf was always aware of the most minute detail of his surroundings, always in complete control of his actions.  He never reacted blindly, never drew a weapon without a target.  And yet . . . only centuries of drills – never fire blind, if you cannot see your enemy use your knives – had prevented Legolas from stringing an arrow at that critical moment.  It had been far closer than ever should have been allowed.

Legolas stared into the shadows past the doorway of their chamber.  Keen though his eyes were, he could make out only the vague outline of humps of rubble, slightly darker in the inky blackness where Mithrandir’s light did not reach.  He could hear the shifts of his companions as they slept.  Pippin was sitting against the wall with arms wrapped around his drawn up knees, staring blankly at the well.  Gimli’s mail scraped against the rock as he shifted position.  The Dwarf’s stentorian breathing rasped harshly in the stillness.  Legolas was vaguely grateful that Gimli had not gone to sleep.  He could not have borne the Dwarf’s snores this night.

Mithrandir was also awake, it seemed.  The wizard was lying on his side facing the wall, his breath slow and regular, but there was an air of tension around him that did not speak of sleep.  Legolas stretched his senses out further.  Somewhere there was a faint drip, drip of water against stone.  The flapping footfalls had ceased.  No echo of the hammer taps remained.

Yet even as he listened, Legolas felt strangely cut off from the world around him.  Sound was distorted in the dead air, and no light pierced the darkness.  But more than that, he felt alone.  As a Wood-elf, Legolas was accustomed to having his own senses extended and augmented by the forest of his home.  The trees responded to the creatures in their midst, and nothing entered Mirkwood without affecting their song. 

The Elves were naturally attuned to the rhythm of life around them.  The tree-song was a fundamental part of Legolas’ being, and so much a part of his senses that he hardly thought about it, until it was gone.

But now, cut off from any manner of growing things, trapped in a world of stone and iron, Legolas was disoriented and adrift.  Though his senses were still keener than those of his companions, by his own standards he was nearly deaf and blind.  He was striving to compensate for a sense that he could not even explain fully to the mortals around him.

Watching as they rested peacefully, Legolas was struck by how very different they were, how alien their perceptions were to his own.  He had noticed these differences before in his friendship with Aragorn, but then they had seemed a small thing.  Mortals slept with their eyes closed – how that had startled him the first time he had patrolled with the Ranger!  He had shaken the Man awake, certain that he must be grievously sick.  He had laughed when Aragorn had explained it to him, but spent the rest of the night watching him closely.  It had taken several more night watches to convince him that the Man would not die in his sleep.

Mortals sank in deep snow, and had limited powers of sight and hearing, and could not seem to move in a forest without crashing through the underbrush like wounded múmakil.  And yet these things had seemed so minor, insignificant in comparison to the gifts they offered.  Legolas had been raised to have a strong suspicion of outsiders, for Thranduil’s people bore the scars of the Last Alliance deeply.  Everyone had lost family or friends in the War, and many of those who had not succumbed to grief had later passed away over the Sea.  The Mirkwood Elves would have accepted this loss as a necessary part of their long battle against the forces of evil, but at the last their tragedy was compounded, their victory made meaningless, by the treachery of Man. 

But Legolas was young, and had not seen Isildur’s betrayal personally.  Though he loved his people, and felt their pain, he had a more open mind than his elders.  It was perhaps this openness that prompted Elrond to choose him for the Fellowship, and that allowed him to appreciate his companions.

Legolas had learned that mortals possessed a keen awareness of time.  For all the love that the Eldar had for Middle-earth, they did not mark the time spent there.  One yén flowed into the next seamlessly, the only change coming in the growing Shadow.  But mortals counted every year, every day, every hour with obsessive precision.  They celebrated each year of their lives, marking the anniversary of their birth with gifts and special feasts.  Legolas found this custom enchanting, though he was unable to explain it to his father or brothers.

“They count the days until their death,” Thranduil had marveled.  He was sitting on his throne, a crown of autumn leaves entwined in his golden hair.  Legolas had just finished his report of the latest trade negotiation with the Men of Laketown.  Occasionally, as a gesture of respect, and as a way of checking up on the mortals so close to Mirkwood’s borders, the Elves visited Laketown for these necessary meetings rather than summoning the Men to Thranduil’s halls. 

Such visits were invariably dull: long, tedious meetings with minor interludes during which the Elves were gawked at suspiciously by Men who never seemed to appreciate that the security and prosperity they enjoyed was due to their trade with the Elves.  Worse still, in the evenings the more friendly of the mortals would attempt to show hospitality by dragging the Elves into smoky, dark taverns and forcing tankards of ale and hours of off-key singing upon them.

It was a common joke among Mirkwood’s guards that they would rather join the Southern patrols (which ventured nearest the encroaching evil of Dol Guldur and hence suffered the greatest casualty rate) than provide escort for the Laketown trading parties.

Certainly Legolas shared this opinion.  Yet Mirkwood’s youngest prince showed a remarkable amount of patience, even friendliness, toward the Men.  This may have been due in part to his long admiration of Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond who always seemed to be in the company of one Man or another.  It was known, among noble Elves at least, that the house of Elrond maintained close ties to the heirs of Isildur.  The twins spent a great deal of time with the Dúnedain, and nearly always brought one with them on their infrequent visits to Mirkwood.

Despite his strained relationship with Elrond Thranduil received them graciously, for he needed the support and wisdom of Imladris as he fought on the darkest front of the Elves’ Long Defeat.  But he was ever cool toward the heir of Isildur, and forbid his own sons from speaking to him.  Thus Legolas’ earliest encounters with mortals were generally at a distance, and inextricably bound up with his observations of the adventurous, exciting twins.

The result was predictable, though not as Thranduil might have hoped.  Rather than scorning mortals, Legolas was fascinated by them.  The ways that Men and Dwarves differed from each other, as well as from the Firstborn, piqued the young Elf’s curiosity.  This was not unnoticed, and the result was that the unpleasant task of visiting Laketown had increasingly been foisted off upon the youngest prince.  He might have disliked it, but he did his duty with grace and discipline.  He certainly never threatened to shoot the locals, as Thranduil’s third son Ellomë had done after being subjected to innumerable quantities of pipeweed smoke and a forty-five minute rendition of “The Lay of Leithien.”

Indeed, curiosity often overcame distaste, with the result that Legolas allowed himself to be drawn from the clean Elven campsite near the river and into Laketown itself, to observe mortal merry-making.  It was there, in a slightly less smoky tavern than usual, that he had witnessed the birthday party.

Thinking back over the events, Legolas tried to capture the spirit in a way that his father could understand.  He had finished his formal report, standing before the slightly raised dais in the small natural clearing where the king held court in peacetime.  The rest of his negotiating party had been dismissed, and Thranduil stretched out his long legs in a signal that formalities were complete, for the moment.

“I do not believe that they count the days until death, Sire,” Legolas said finally.  “None of their songs spoke of such a thing.  Rather they count the days of their life thus far, and regard the years they hold as a measure of their accomplishments.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.  “And yet they know that death is inevitable.  Surely they must recognize that each year they count past is another closer to the end.  They cannot deny their mortality.  It must be a strange Doom of Ilúvatar indeed, that they look forward to it.”

Legolas frowned.  “Perhaps,” he said.  “And perhaps it is the knowledge that their time is limited that makes them treasure each day so.  We love Middle-earth, Father, and yet do we love it as they do?  How long have we held Greenwood against the Enemy?  Should we not take pride in that accomplishment, measured in years?  And,” he added with a hint of mischievousness, “shall we not be grateful for our king, and celebrate his birth?”

Thranduil stiffened, and sat up straight in his chair.  “I hardly believe that you have so neglected your lessons as to forget the date of our arrival in Greenwood.  And as for the other, how long would you count the years, my son?  Into the thousands, the tens of thousands?  To what end?  Would not such a custom become a farce?  We continue, to the end of Song.  Counting the time of the Song is meaningless.”

Legolas opened his mouth to argue, but the king raised a hand in dismissal.  “You may look up the year of your birth in the histories, if you are curious.  And you may add an additional hour of study to your discipline this evening, to remind you that we do not leave the record-keeping of Middle-earth to mortals alone.”  He turned away and motioned a guard to bring in the next postulant.

Legolas closed his mouth and bowed.  He turned and walked with quiet grace from the clearing, careful not to show his anger in posture or expression, though Thranduil was no longer looking at him.  He held himself in check until he reached the seclusion of the trees, where he could launch himself up into the branches and run.  He did eventually return to spend an additional hour in Mirkwood’s library that evening, as ordered, but first he spent two hours in knife work on the practice fields, in order to exhaust his anger to the point that he could think clearly.

He should never have mentioned the birthday celebration to the king.  The negotiations with the Men of Laketown had gone well, and Legolas had arranged a settlement that would profit Mirkwood greatly in the coming years.  But his father had said naught of congratulations or even acknowledgement.  Always Thranduil seemed to hold him back, to give him the simplest of assignments.  And now, when he had accomplished his task and proven himself worthy of responsibility, the king was distracted by a passing description of mortal custom and dismissed him as a wayward child.

There was something meaningful in the mortal view of time, Legolas was sure of it.  But his father would not see it.  Legolas did look up the date of Thranduil’s birth, and kept quiet note of the day for several years.  But the king was correct.  Such ritual was meaningless for the Eldar.  An Elf-child’s development might be measured by age, but after he reached physical maturity and attained full rank among Mirkwood’s warriors time had little meaning.  An Elf was reckoned young or old by the tone he sang in Ilúvatar’s Song.  With the passing ages they grew in wisdom and patience, and their tone became deeper and more resonant with the harmony of Ennor.  Legolas’ own faer was driven by an eagerness for new experiences that would have marked him a youth, even were he not one of the last of the Elves born in Middle-earth. 

Yet however many Ages passed, he would retain a sense of playfulness and mischief, as did all Elves that did not succumb to grief.  It was necessary, lest the gift of years grow heavy and the heart be crushed by weight of experience under Shadow.  Legolas often marveled at the seriousness of Men.  They had so few years in Middle-earth that they had the luxury of an intensity that no Elf could afford.  Measuring the years was a gift of the Second born, and an indication, to Legolas’ mind, of their value in Ilúvatar’s Song.  But there was no point in arguing this to Thranduil.

The king’s mind was set, and would not be changed.  Legolas held his tongue, but continued his observations of mortals when the infrequent opportunity arose.  It was as a commander of a small scouting party some centuries later that he chanced upon Elladan and Elrohir on the east bank of the Anduin, and was introduced to their brother, Estel.

Wary though Legolas naturally was of strangers, he soon found a sense of kinship with the tall young Man.  There was an almost Elvish air about him, and Legolas sensed the blood of Númenor in him, truer than in all his ancestors who had previously visited Mirkwood’s halls.  Gradually suspicion gave way to friendship, for in Aragorn Legolas found a keen wit and a sense of adventure and curiosity to match his own.  They would meet and travel together when chance and duty allowed.  Legolas took him patrolling Mirkwood’s borders, and found the Man’s woodcraft a near match to the Elves’.  Also, the great racket that the Man made in the brush served to draw spiders to them, giving Legolas an easier shot and allowing them to kill many of the foul beasts without having to venture into their web-ridden nests.

Their friendship was noted by the other Elves, of course, but few questioned the young prince directly.  Legolas had proved himself an adept warrior many times over.  As a captain of Mirkwood’s forces he was subject to no command save the king’s, and he skillfully avoided his father’s censure.  Biased though he was, Thranduil would not order his sons concerning their personal lives unless they endangered Mirkwood’s people.  And Legolas was careful to ensure that his friendship with Aragorn never interfered with his duties to the guard or to the court.

So Thranduil could not order him to cease his visits with the Ranger, though the king did not scruple to make his displeasure known.  Even more than his distrust of Isildur’s line, Legolas knew, Thranduil feared attachment to mortals of any kind.  They were by their very nature transitory, and grew from strength to frailty in a breath of wind.  To become attached to a mortal was to invite sorrow and despair when the inevitable end came. 

The life expectancy of Elves who gave their hearts to mortals was greatly reduced.  And even if the Elf survived the grief, Middle-earth too often lost all appeal in the aftermath.  The Sindarin connection to Middle-earth was stronger than that of their Noldor kin, but could still be weakened by grief.  It was their isolation that allowed the Mirkwood Elves to remain, even as their brethren in Imladris and Lothlórien faded and passed over Sea.  Thranduil had lost two sons to mortal treachery, he told Legolas.  He would not lose another to mortal love.

And yet Legolas believed that the benefits of mortal companionship far outweighed the risks.  There was a sense of impermanence about them that forced one to appreciate every moment.  Men burned with a white-hot flame that flared up in an instant and threw the world into stark relief before it faded.  The intensity of it seemed to consume them from within, leaving its mark on their features, but giving them wisdom as well.  Legolas had been amazed at the great changes in his friend the first time he had encountered Estel after a short absence.  His face had grown more rugged and weathered, and small lines around his eyes bespoke great experience and growing wisdom.  Small gray threads in his dark hair showed the passage of time, like ash, Legolas thought, from the burning within.  He later calculated how much time had passed since he had last seen his friend, and been shocked to realize that twenty years had slipped by.

After that he made an effort to keep track of the seasons, and not allow too much time to pass between visits.  Thranduil insisted that he stay in Mirkwood, but Legolas led patrols along the kingdom’s borders, and occasionally he was allowed to carry messages to Imladris.  He sought these opportunities, for a mortal friendship could not be taken for granted. 

Yet now, as he kept watch in a cavern a league below Ennor’s surface, Legolas couldn’t help but wonder if his father had a point.  Aragorn was a close to an Elf as a Man could be; yet he slept.  The evil grew ever nearer, close and thick as the choking darkness about them, yet the mortals slumbered without care.  Pippin was alert and watchful, but Legolas could see weariness in his eyes.  And the Dwarf . . . Gimli’s kin had actually built this black pit, and took pleasure in shutting away the stars and free air.  He was at ease here, and sat relaxed against the wall, for all that he watched Legolas from the corner of his eye.  The Elf was cut off from the song of growing things, trapped by stone and iron, feeling the Shadow growing every stronger, and surrounded by beings whose perceptions and thoughts seemed suddenly completely alien to his own.

Legolas drew a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes.  His hands traced the smooth wood of his bow, taking comfort in the familiar touch as he tried to center himself.  He forced his thoughts to focus on the slow rhythm of his breath as he sought the calm center within himself.  Slowly the rock tightness of his neck and shoulders eased, his hands relaxed against his bow as he sought the meditative state as he might do prior to a battle.

This faltered somewhat as he came up again.  Automatically, as he felt calm soothing away the previous tension, he allowed his senses to spread out again and sought the familiar forest song to complete the process.  But it was gone, and in its place was only an echoing void of darkness and stone.  Legolas shied away from it, and forced himself to ignore it.  Still, the meditation had worked, and though he was still alert and wary, he was no longer keyed to the breaking point.

Thus he did not start or jump when Mithrandir suddenly rolled over and cast off his blanket.  The Istar met his gaze for a moment, then got up and went over to Pippin.  Legolas was aware as the wizard spoke softly to the Hobbit and sent him to bed, but most of his attention was focused once more on the impenetrable darkness beyond the door.

He turned sharply back toward Mithrandir at the sound of him rummaging in his pack.  And it was all he could do to suppress a groan as the wizard drew forth his pipe.  As much as he might like some mortals, Legolas did not and could not appreciate some of their odder habits, and Mithrandir seemed to have developed a taste for the most unpleasant habit of all.

Legolas held himself still while the wizard packed and tamped down leaf in his pipe, but when he produced a small coal and issued forth a stream of smoke, the Elf could bear it no longer.

He circled the well and walked over to Mithrandir.  The Istar watched him calmly through a growing haze of pipeweed smoke.  “You do not sleep,” he said quietly when Legolas stopped before him.

“Nor do you,” returned the Elf.  “I believe that you gave Pippin the watch.”

Mithrandir shrugged.  “I had need for thought.  I must decide which path we shall take.  The middle passage is the most level, and seems to be soundest, but there is a feel about it that I do not like.”

“There is a feel about this whole place that I do not like,” Legolas muttered.  He bowed his head for a moment, trying once again to find the source of the icy dread that curled up the back of his neck.  But there was nothing, only the omnipresent weight of stone above and the silence.  He looked up again to find the wizard watching him with raised brows.  “Shadow is all around us, Mithrandir, as great as in the very bowels of Dol Guldur.  Is this truly the only way open to us?”

“I fear that choice was taken from us by the Watcher,” the wizard replied.  His voice was low and tinged with concern.  “We must go on.  Will you manage it?”

Legolas stiffened.  “I am no stranger to the Shadow, nor even to caves.  My mind is clear.  But I tell you there is something here, more than Orcs or Shadow.  There is evil watching us, such as I have never felt.  You know this.  We must get out of this place, we must leave now.”

Mithrandir shook his head.  “The evil of which you speak cannot be escaped so easily.  It is a part of our Doom, I think, and we can only meet it as best we can.  And that means allowing the Company to rest, and taking time to choose our course as wisely as we are able.  We cannot go rushing blindly into the dark, choosing passages at random.”

“I said naught of going blind,” Legolas said.  “I will trust you, Mithrandir, as I have always done.  But I will not sit by and wait for evil to find us.  At least permit me to scout our path, to see what dangers await us in the passages ahead.  Then you may choose in certainty, and swiftly.”

The bowl of Mithrandir’s pipe glowed briefly as the wizard sucked upon it.  “You say your mind is clear, but what you propose is folly.  I have no need of such knowledge, if the getting of it puts one of our members at such risk.  You know nothing of these passages, and you have no skill in Dwarven mines.  To wander alone in the dark is utter foolishness.”

Legolas seized upon the weak point in the wizard’s argument.  “Then I shall not go alone.  Aragorn will scout with me.  He has been here before.”

But Mithrandir was shaking his head, and his eyes flashed with growing exasperation.  “You will not put another of the Company at risk because you cannot abide staying still in the dark.  The mines are vast, and Aragorn did not pass through this portion.  Moreover he is sleeping, and I will not disturb his rest.”

Legolas hissed as a hot coil of anger curled in his chest.  “I am an Elf.  We are children of the stars, and our people lived ere sun or moon gave light.  It is not mere darkness that troubles me.  Do not think to dismiss my counsel so easily.  We are in danger.  I propose a reasonable method of determining the nature of the threat, and how close it comes to us.  At the very least Orcs may be on our trail, roused by Pippin’s stone.  I will not permit you to let evil catch us unawares.”

Mithrandir sighed.  “An Elf you are indeed, Legolas Thranduilion, and your pride leads you to folly.  I admit that a scouting of our path may be useful, and if Orcs follow us I would not have them come too close.  But you are the last member of this Company that I would choose for such a mission.  Darkness you may know, but the caves wear upon you, and drive you to recklessness.  Even the Hobbits are more suited to this place than you.”

Legolas might have made a comment at that point that would have reflected poorly on his upbringing, but he was prevented by a deep voice that spoke from behind him.  “Of course he cannot cope in the mines.  Only a fool would send an Elf to do a Dwarf’s task.”

Legolas whirled to see Gimli regarding him with a dark gaze.  The Dwarf met his eyes for a moment, then pushed heavily to his feet and picked up his axe.  “I will scout the paths ahead, and take care of any Orcs that might pursue us.”

Mithrandir breathed out a long plume of smoke, and Legolas held his breath until it dispersed.  “I do not doubt your expertise in the mines, Gimli, but this is not the Lonely Mountain.  This labyrinth is beyond your experience, and in any case it is still foolish to travel alone.”

Legolas had a split second to decide.  His first instinct was to support Mithrandir in quelling the Dwarf’s arrogance.  Gimli had been far too free in his boasts of Dwarven superiority ever since they had first approached Moria.  Legolas would dearly love to see the Dwarf reminded of his shortcomings.  But that would mean that Legolas would be trapped here in this small cavern with the Dwarf and a smoke breathing wizard until Mithrandir deigned to allow the Company to move on.  Legolas was desperate to get out of the enclosing walls, at least, even if it were only to face the greater dark of Moria, and even if he had to endure the Dwarf to do it.  To move freely was worth even the greatest sacrifice, he told himself, and spoke before he could change his mind.

“Then the Dwarf and I will go together,” he said.  “He has enough stone craft to avoid leading us over a cliff, I think, and I will prevent any Orcs from skewering him.”

Mithrandir and Gimli turned toward him with identical expressions of shock, and Legolas lifted his chin defiantly.  Gimli looked like he was going to object, but then Mithrandir spoke.  “This is not the place for games, Legolas.  You and Gimli have done nothing but torment one another since we left Rivendell.  One of you alone is too great a risk, but both of you together is begging for disaster.  A false step could lead to tragedy, and a distracted warrior is no warrior at all.”

Legolas stiffened, but Gimli spoke first.  “We are not children, Gandalf,” he said, and there was a wealth of wounded pride in his voice.  “We have never endangered the Company, and we will not do so now.”

Legolas nodded, not caring that he was agreeing with the Dwarf.  “You bid us to be friends, Mithrandir, and to assist you.  Friends we are not, but we will assist you nonetheless.  I will not let the Dwarf’s blockheaded stubbornness give the advantage to our foes.”

Gimli glared at him briefly, but said, “And I will not let the Elf’s featherbrained arrogance betray us.  There is too much at stake.”

Mithrandir sighed gustily.  Legolas felt a small curl of triumph at this.  They had countered the wizard’s arguments, and truly he had no choice but to let them go.  Even the echoing shadows would be a blessed reprieve from this stony sarcophagus.  Mithrandir caught his eye and glowered.  Legolas smiled back – surely the wizard was about to admit defeat.  But Mithrandir cast about for a moment and then came up with a new objection.

“You have no light.  Even Legolas cannot see without some illumination, and we have no torches.”

“I have senses other than sight,” Legolas began, but Gimli interrupted.  “Of course we have a torch.  Men and Elves might be careless about such things, but a Dwarf is always prepared.”

Gimli stumped over to his pack and began rummaging in it.  Legolas watched him with some bemusement.  If the Dwarf did manage to produce a torch, so much the better, for then Mithrandir would surely have to admit defeat.  But with or without a light, Legolas was determined to go.  He had spoken truly when he told the wizard that the darkness in itself did not bother him.  Far more than mere blackness pressed in upon them, and no amount of light would counter the Shadow, or fill the desolate silence of the void.  Legolas actually hoped that they would encounter Orcs.  He desperately needed to move, to fight, anything to break that smothering silence.

“Aha!”  Gimli straightened up triumphantly.  He held a small throwing axe in his hand, and was winding torn rags about its head.  He produced a small bottle of grease and smeared the rags liberally.  Then with a spark from his flint and tinder, the rags caught in smoky flame.  They seemed to produce more smoke than light, but would no doubt provide illumination enough.

“Will that not damage your weapon?” Legolas asked curiously.  The Dwarf was always possessive of his things, and setting a good throwing axe ablaze seemed out of character.  But Gimli snorted.  “Dwarven craft is not so flimsy as the weapons to which you are accustomed, Master Elf.  The head is tempered iron, and it is driven straight into the iron core of the handle.  The wood may char a little, but the axe will hold.”

At any other time, Legolas would have taken issue with the Dwarf’s casual dismissal of Elven craft, and challenged him to a test of their respective merits – Gimli’s helmet, perhaps, against one of Legolas’ arrows.  In view of the probable outcome of such a test, Legolas might even allow Gimli to take the helmet off first.  But at the moment all that mattered was that Mithrandir was finally looking resigned to letting them go.  The wizard had run out of arguments to deter them, and offered only a final token warning.  “Very well then.  But be careful, both of you.  Return here within two hours and report your findings.”

Legolas did not ask how they were expected to tell the time without reference to moon or stars, for Gimli was nodding absently.  If depending on Dwarven time sense was the worst fate that befell him in these benighted mines, Legolas thought, he would be grateful indeed.  He bowed to Mithrandir and turned, and did not look back as Gimli followed him through the doorway. 

*~*~* 

Múmakil:  Sam’s Oliphants.  The TwoTowers, Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit

yén:  translates as “year,” but actually equivalent to 144 of our years.  This is the Quenyan word, used because that's what Tolkien uses in the books, and I felt that the Sindarin version (idhrin) was too obscure for most readers to recognize easily.  Return of the King, Appendix D: The Calendars

Ellomë:  From él, star, and lômë, dusk.  “Star-dusk.”  I made it up, source The Silmarillion appendix.

Ennor:  Sindarin equivalent of Arda, Earth, The Silmarillion

faer:  Sindarin equivalent of fëa, soul. The Silmarillion

Estel:  Hope.  The name given to Aragorn/Strider/Thorongil/Elessar when he lived in Rivendell.  Return of the King, Appendix A part v.

Legolas Thranduilion:  Greenleaf son of Thranduil.  But you already knew that.

Coming soon: Chapter 4.  Time for the action part of this action/adventure/angst story.

A/N:  This chapter was something of a milestone for me: my first battle scene, and my first attempt at Elvish.  Translations and sources for the Elvish are at the end.  As always, this story was much improved through the long-suffering patience of my beta reader, Angel.  Action sequences are tremendous fun to write, but they wreck havoc on my grammar.

Disclaimer:  I own nothing, and am forever grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for creating this wonderful world to play in.

Chapter 4:  Encounters in the Dark

Gimli raised his torch high as he followed the Elf, the better to avoid stumbling on the loose rubble that covered their path.  He carried his axe easily in his left hand, but in truth he doubted that it would be needed.  Even a Dwarf with a lifetime’s experience in interpreting echoes underground would have had difficulty finding their location from Pippin’s dropped stone.

Still, it would be good to make certain that no enemies tracked them.  And Gimli welcomed the chance to walk the passages of Khazad-dûm.  His flickering light only hinted at the vast columns that lined their small side corridor, the awesome work of ages past.  Gimli shifted the torch to his left hand, awkwardly holding it together with his axe, and trailed his right hand reverently along the intricate carvings of the passage wall.

Centuries had his kin toiled here.  The greatest craftsmen of Middle-earth had devoted their lives to this city of the Dwarves.  They had shaped blank stone into sweeping archways and towering columns.  Where others had seen only a black pit, they had realized the possibility of beauty.  In the greatest irony of Dwarven secrecy, they had even embraced the derogatory name given by the Elves.  They had taken Moria, and made it a kingdom to surpass all others.  In the bitter depths under Caradhras, they had created a cathedral unmatched by any other structure in Middle-earth.  It was the work of generations, the work of genius.  But more, it was the work of love.

Gimli’s breath caught and he felt a great swelling of pride in his chest.  He could have fallen to his knees and thanked blessed Mahal that he was born to such a people.  His kin had created this!  No matter the fate that befell them, Moria was an accomplishment to be sung of through all the Ages of Arda. 

Gently he brushed a fragmented design in the wall beside him.  Pride was tempered with a deeper sorrow that choked his throat.  The labor, the skill, the strength that his people had put into Khazad-dûm was lost.  These passages should have been filled with light, singing with the ring of Dwarven steel and machinery.  But they were silent.  The walls were cold and the echoing spaces whispered with the voices of lost souls.  This was their greatest accomplishment, and their greatest downfall.  It was fitting that pride be mixed with sorrow, and Gimli was honored to walk their monument, and remember them in the only way he could.  If only he didn’t have to share it with the Elf.

Legolas was well ahead of him, moving with deceptive speed.  The Elf paused frequently in the narrow passage, listening, but then slipped on so quickly that Gimli could hardly see his movements.  He seemed to know without looking the swiftest path through the rubble, and he moved silently in the gloom with effortless grace.  He was a good thirty feet ahead of Gimli when he reached the opening of their side passage and stopped before the archway that had confounded Gandalf.

Gimli followed more slowly, using his torch to pick out the path and occasionally tapping the rock with the butt of his axe.  These caves were full of unstable shale and hidden pits that might give way suddenly.  Despite his height Legolas weighed considerably less than Gimli, and the Dwarf had seen the way he moved over snow and in tree branches.  Just because the path held for the Elf did not mean it would not give way under Gimli, and he was taking no chances.

He paused for a moment in a relatively clear area and looked ahead.  He was perhaps 15 feet from the open archway where Legolas stood before the three branching passages.  The Elf was turned toward him, his head bowed as if listening.  A lock of golden hair had worked free of his braids and fell across his cheek. He stood still, his eyes closed and his dark brows drawn together in concentration.

Gimli was about to move forward again when something about the Elf stopped him.  He narrowed his eyes, considering.  Legolas was well beyond the range of Gimli’s small torch.  The smoldering rags cast light for only a few feet about him, and the path ahead was lost in shadows.  Yet Gimli could see the Elf clearly.  He could see the way Legolas’ hands moved slightly, the long fingers tightening on his bow.  He could see the shift of his shoulders and the spill of his hair as Legolas turned his head.  There was no light, and yet Gimli could see every detail, even to the color of his hair.  Gimli took a step back and tipped his head to look at a different angle, scowling.  There could be no doubt about it.  The Elf was glowing.

It was faint: a dim light that barely illuminated the rocks immediately around Legolas, but it was there.  Gimli wondered why he had not noticed it before.  But the light of Gandalf’s staff would have likely obscured the glow.  As for their previous journey, it certainly would not have been noticeable by day.  And Gimli had made a point of not looking at the Elf during the two weeks of night marches after they left Rivendell.  Besides, Legolas almost always took the rearguard of the Company, or else went scouting ahead out of sight.  He had avoided the Dwarf’s company as much as Gimli had avoided his.

With a sigh of disgust Gimli raised his torch and stumped forward again.  He was prepared for the dark, the musty air, and the treacherous footing of their road.  He could even cope with the sense of utter loss that pervaded the ruin of his people’s glory.  But this was a bit much.  He was trapped in the company of a glow-in-the-dark Elf.  Truly the Valar had a twisted sense of humor.

Legolas opened his eyes as Gimli came up to him.  “You move so loudly, Master Dwarf, it is a wonder you do not cause these halls to cave in on us.  We shall have no need to search for Orcs.  You will bring them to us.”

Gimli snorted.  “Don’t be absurd.  None can match a Dwarf for stealth in the mines.  It is you who give us away.”

Legolas raised a skeptical eyebrow.  Gimli flushed and gestured awkwardly toward the Elf.  It really seemed too absurd to put into words.  “You’re . . . you’re glowing.”  Legolas glanced down at himself, then at Gimli, and shrugged.  “And you are not.”  They stared at one another for a moment, and then Legolas turned away.  “Have no fear, Master Dwarf.  I have centuries of experience at concealment.  And your torch gives far more light than do I.  If you will control your breathing and footfalls, we will be in no danger.”

I can put out the torch if need be.  I wonder how one puts out an Elf?  Gimli reluctantly pushed aside the image of himself dousing Legolas with a bucket of water and focused on the task at hand.  “Well, Master Elf, it was you that brought us out here.  Which way do we go?  Back along the path we came?” 

Legolas shook his head.  “We passed no signs of Orc habitation.  The yrch will be further in the labyrinth, away from the entrance.  They will come from ahead of us.”

Gimli grunted.  “Orcs have a keen sense of smell.  And they know these paths better than we do.  They might circle around and track our trail.  We cannot let them surround us.  More than one of Thráin’s companies was lost that way during the War.”

Legolas gave him an odd look.  “Did you serve in the war of the Dwarves and the Orcs?”

Gimli laughed shortly.  “That was long before I was born.  But I know my people’s history.  We do not leave the record keeping of Middle-earth to the Elves alone.”

Legolas froze for a moment and then said softly, “No, I suppose not.  But many valiant deeds were done in that time.  It is good that you remember them.”  Gimli stared.  Was the Elf actually praising Dwarven valor?  But Legolas continued, in a strange tone, “Still, those companies did not have Elves with them.  Yrch will not stop to formulate strategy or lay traps when they encounter Elves.  Their hatred is so great, they can think of nothing save the blood lust.”  He gazed into the dark for a moment, and Gimli saw that his eyes were fully dilated, the pupils filling the iris and dark with memory.  “We have no need to worry about such tactics.  If they catch my scent, they will come by the most direct path and will not stop for thought.”

Gimli blinked, not at all sure that was an encouraging prospect, but then Legolas seemed to come back to himself.  “Our time is limited.  We should scout the passages ahead and report our findings to Gandalf.”

The plan was a reasonable one, but Gimli had not missed the edge of tension in Legolas’ voice, nor the way his eyes continuously scanned the darkness around them.  The Elf was drawn as taut as his bowstring, and standing there in the dark was not helping matters.  For a moment Gimli considered feigning ignorance of his companion’s state and drawing the discussion out longer, just to irritate Legolas further.  But the Elf’s left hand was now straying toward the knives at his back, and Gimli thought better of it.  Dwarves weren’t ones for extended debates in any case.  Shifting his axe to his right hand, Gimli moved toward the center corridor.

“No!” Legolas’ voice cracked like a whip behind him.  Surprised, Gimli turned back to look at the Elf.  He was standing rigid, staring past Gimli into the black passage, his bow clenched in a white-knuckled grip.  “There is evil there, but it is not Orcs.  It . . . it is deeper, older . . .” Legolas closed his eyes a moment and drew a slow breath.  When he opened his eyes and continued his voice was calm.  “It is far from us now, but no Orc would use that path.  We would find nothing, and we might disturb something best left to rest.  Mithrandir will not choose the straight road.”

Gimli stared at the Elf in disbelief.  How could he possibly know anything about any of the paths ahead?  There was no sound or sight Gimli could detect to distinguish the center passage from either of the side corridors.  More likely Legolas would simply prefer to take the ascending path to their right.  He probably hoped to climb up to ground level, and perhaps find some shaft for natural light.  The great city of Khazad-dûm was said to have many such openings to the surface, used to illuminate grand artifacts or chambers of state.  In truth it was a sight that Gimli himself would have loved to see.  But if there were lighted spaces above, they would be the last places inhabited by Orcs.  The Elf was making ridiculous claims in a transparent effort to avoid descending deeper into the darkness.  Well, Gimli thought, it was time to call his bluff.

“Very well, then,” he said.  “We’ll hunt them deeper.”  And he plunged down the steps into the left hand passage.  He fully expected Legolas to call him back, but no cry was forthcoming.  He could not hear the Elf behind him – perhaps he had simply frozen with fear at the thought of going deeper underground.  Gimli kept going.  He didn’t need the Elf in any case – let him stay there in the archway until Gimli returned.  But as he descended doubt grew in his mind.  What if his mind cracks from the strain?  Gandalf trusted you to guard him – you know he cannot abide the stone and the shadows.  Elves are weak in any case; will you abandon your duty?  Gimli gritted his teeth and kept going, but slower now.  What if his madness drives him to attack the Company?  You may risk the safety of the Ring-bearer, because you could not handle one Elf.  Gimli stopped.  There was no choice but to go back and persuade the Elf to come, or maybe even go with him to the upper chambers.  Probably there were no Orcs within these caverns.  Whatever Durin’s Bane had been, it was not Orcs.  The Elf might well be the greater danger at this point, and Gimli could not leave him alone.  He sighed and turned around, and nearly ran straight into Legolas’ chest, where the Elf stood not two paces behind him.

Gimli cried out in shock and dropped his torch.  He stumbled backward, nearly falling on the crumbling steps, and Legolas seized his wrist to steady him.  “What are you doing, Dwarf?” the Elf hissed.  “This is no time for games.  We must go forward!”

Gimli panted, his heart pounding in his throat.  His knees were weak and his limbs leaden with shock.  It was a moment before he found his voice.  “Me!  You’re the one sneaking up on people from behind!  I ought to put a bell around your neck.  Crazy Elf, I could have been killed!”

One corner of Legolas’ mouth quirked and his eyes danced in amusement.  “I was not ‘sneaking up’ on you, Master Dwarf.  I simply do not choose to stamp and crash about like a cave troll.  But fear not.  If the Orcs are as hard of hearing as you are, even your movements will not alert them to our presence.”

Gimli sputtered, but Legolas bent swiftly and picked up the torch.  He thrust it at the Dwarf, and Gimli was forced to grab the handle lest his beard be singed.  “As pleasant as this stairway is, I fear it is time to move on.  Come along, Master Dwarf.”  With that Legolas slipped past him and moved easily down the stairs.

There was no choice but to follow.  “Cave troll,” Gimli muttered to himself as he picked his way cautiously after the Elf.  “I’ll show you a cave troll.  I ought to lob my axe at your head.  See how well you move then, Elf.”  He thought he heard a snicker from ahead of him, but he ignored it.  It was amazing how quickly the Elf switched from near paranoia to amusement.  One moment he seemed likely to attack anything that moved, the next he was acting as if unaware of the surrounding caves.  Gimli was unsure if this was a symptom of Legolas’ growing instability, or just normal Elf behavior.  In any case it did not matter.  All Elves were crazy anyway.  He supposed that he ought to be grateful that the creature wasn’t singing.  

*~*~*

Legolas could hear the Dwarf’s heavy breathing behind him as he moved lightly down the stairs.  This passage seemed to descend forever.  Unlike the previous corridors, there were no columns or engravings along the sides.  It was just a tunnel with rough-hewn steps, going endlessly down into the dark.  Legolas could feel the weight of stone above increasing, the utter silence growing even deeper as they moved in the dark.

But the oppressive sense of evil had actually lessened.  The air was foul with the stench of Orcs, but that was familiar and could be dealt with.  The focused weight of malice was still there, but less intense than it had been above.  Standing before the archway above, Legolas had been certain that the source was far from them yet, perhaps leagues away in this twisted labyrinth.  But the central corridor had been resonant with its presence.  That path would be the first step toward it.  Perhaps Mithrandir was right, and it was a Doom they could not avoid.  But Legolas did not see that they had to go rushing into its arms either. 

Something was waking, the long sleep of Ages falling away as an evil unlike any he had felt before bent its thought toward them.  Almost he could feel the heat of flame on his skin, hear the shift of great wings in the dark.  If he turned his head quickly enough, he might catch a glimpse of Shadow, visible in its hate.  He was young, and the horrors of the Second Age were only legend to him.  But this was something that transcended years.  Legolas had never seen the terrors that his father had told him of, yet this presence sent a shock of recognition through him.  The Shadow had taken form here, and it pulsed with the rhythm of his soul.  Elf and Maia and Shadow were come together, and the Bane of the Dwarves had been first the Enemy of the Elves.  The Ring was calling, and Legolas could feel the bat-flutter of a response at the back of his mind.  Morgoth . . .

So it was that he felt nearly giddy with relief when they chose a different passage and descended, away from the resonance of evil.  The physical darkness was nothing compared to that Shadow, and the weight of stone seemed a small thing.  The loss of Ilúvatar’s Song was an ever-present ache, but even that was tolerable in his relief.  It was childish, he knew, and they could not escape that presence indefinitely.  But in his fey mood, he did not care.  Mithrandir would certainly choose the ascending passage, for he surely felt the evil resonance of the straight path, and this descending stair stank of Orcs.  Soon they might climb up to free air, or even light.  Legolas could have sung for joy at the thought.

They descended through three twisting turns and then the stair finally ended in a small open space with openings to two other corridors.  Legolas could not be certain of direction in the dark caverns, but he thought that they branched to the east and south.  Both were straight and level for the short distance he could see in Gimli’s torchlight.  There was no sound but the faint drip of water somewhere in the depths.  He could detect nothing to distinguish one passage from the other, or to indicate which they should take.

Gimli came up beside him as he stood surveying their choices.  “And which way now, Master Elf?”  The Dwarf sounded slightly out of breath, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm.  Legolas supposed that he might have preferred a slower descent of the stairway behind them, but the Elf could not be bothered with Dwarven limitations at the moment.  He looked from one dark archway to the other.  “Whatever happened to the superior abilities of the Dwarves?  Must you rely on Elves to direct you even underground?”

Gimli’s boots creaked as he shifted his weight.  “It was your Elven fancies that brought us down here.  Any sensible Dwarf would know better than to descend when the level above was not secure.  So tell me what your superior senses tell you now, or we will go back and take the straight road above.”

Legolas breathed out softly.  Was that movement in the left hand passage?  No, it was only the flicker of Gimli’s torchlight.  “You would be foolish indeed to take that path, Master Dwarf.  The evil is less here, but I feel no difference between the corridors.  Were we in a forest road . . .” he stopped.  Were they in a forest, the trees would indicate which path led to the Orc stronghold.  They would eagerly welcome him, and guide him, for all forests were home to the Wood-elves.  But these were mines.  And mines . . . mines were home to the Dwarves. 

He turned sharply to look at Gimli.  The Dwarf backed up a step, lifting his axe nervously.  “What do they tell you?”

Gimli stared at him, not quite meeting his eyes.  “What does who tell me?”

Legolas gestured to the stone walls, never looking away from Gimli’s face.  “The stones.  The caverns, the mines.  This was your people’s home for centuries.  Surely they remember you.  What do they say?  Which path should we take?”

Gimli’s mouth fell open in clear disbelief.  “They say nothing.  They are rocks, nothing more.  Are you feeling all right?  Perhaps we should return to Gandalf –”

Legolas sighed impatiently.  “This is no time for Dwarven secrecy.  Were we in my home, I would not keep the meaning of the tree-song from you.”

Gimli was trying hard to keep up with the Elf’s flight of fancy.  He thought that he had heard Legolas say something about the trees before on occasion, talking to Aragorn or Gandalf during their earlier journey, but he had ignored it.  “‘Tree-song?’  The trees . . . sing?”

Legolas nodded, his face utterly serious.  Gimli could see no sign of madness in his eyes.  “The trees, the plants, the stars . . . even the stones, if they have known Elves long enough.  They are all a part of Ilúvatar’s Song.  They sing of life, and wind, and sun, and rain, and they welcome Elves, and warn of danger.  I know that mortals do not hear the Song clearly, but surely the stones here must welcome Dwarves.  You are kin, are you not?”

Gimli bristled.  The mysteries of Dwarven beginnings were not something he would share with an Elf, much less a clearly insane Elf.  “You are mad.  There is good stone here, but it is inanimate.  It is a thing.  It is not alive.  And it is certainly not our kin.”

Legolas shook his head.  “I never said that the stone was alive.  But . . .” he lifted a hand, trying to express something that any Elf would have recognized without words, “it is a part of life.  It resonates with the Song of creation.  Can you not hear it?”

Gimli stared at him a moment longer, but the Elf was plainly serious.  Finally Gimli turned away.  He did feel something.  There was a bone-deep connection that any Dwarf felt with solid stone and good craft.  Slowly he lifted a hand to touch the wall of their chamber and closed his eyes.  He traced a finger lightly along the crumbling remains of a triangle pattern carved in the rock.  He thought of the Dwarf that had once carved it, working for hours, perhaps, patiently coaxing the pattern from the yielding stone.  Almost he could hear the slow chip of a chisel in the dark. 

A whisper teased at the back of his mind.  There was something here . . . not song, but maybe the potential for song.  It was something Gimli never would have noticed, had Legolas not insisted that he try.  But now that he opened his mind to the possibility, it seemed that maybe the Elf was right.  Perhaps, if it could be shown how to sing . . . Gimli stepped back and opened his eyes.  His glove was thick with grime.  I have spent far too much time with this fool Elf.  I shall be as mad as he is, soon.

“There is nothing.”  Gimli was pleased that his voice did not shake in the slightest.  “Only an Elf would be crazy enough to sing to trees and rocks.  We use the stone, we do not talk to it.”

Legolas stared at him a moment longer, but Gimli met his eyes defiantly.  Finally the Elf bowed his head and turned away.  “Then it is true,” he whispered.  His voice was strained.  “Perhaps even Ilúvatar has abandoned us here.  All is death, and not even the stars will remember us.”  He was silent for a moment, then he turned back to Gimli and his eyes were bright with fey recklessness.  “We may as well choose a path at random, or split up.  Death will find us in any case.”

Gimli snorted.  “I said that we use the stone.  It can give answers, if used properly.”  With that he lifted his head and gave a short, sharp shout.  “Ai-yi!”  Legolas leaped back in shock as the sound reverberated in the small space and echoed down the branching passages.  But Gimli stood listening intently, and he smiled.

“The echoes are shorter in the eastern passage.  It is blocked perhaps 30 feet down.  Nothing can get through there.  The southern passage is open, however.  That way will lead to the Orcs, if there are any.”

Legolas was staring at him in frank astonishment.  “Yes, and every Orc in the mines will be rushing to find us here!”

Gimli looked at him smugly.  “You wanted to know which way to go, and now we know.  Besides, Orcs hunt by smell and sight, not sound.  And I thought you said that they would find us in any case.”

Legolas’ mouth tightened briefly, but he started toward the Southern passage.  “I said that Death would find us, not Orcs.”

And as Gimli followed him down the corridor, he thought that an odd distinction to make.

*~*~*

The Southern passage was much larger than the previous corridors they had traveled.  It was about 15 feet wide, and lined on either side with columns that stretched up to vanish in the darkness overhead.  The floor was level and solid, and a central path about five feet wide had been cleared of loose rubble.  But there were many large boulders and hills of crumbling rock that leered over them on either side of this path.

They had traveled perhaps 200 yards down the corridor when Legolas stopped so abruptly that Gimli nearly walked into him.  The Elf stood with head bowed for a moment, listening.  Then he turned, and Gimli could see that his eyes were bright and he was quivering with some suppressed emotion.  “They are coming,” he said.

Without another word Legolas ran to the side and leaped easily upon a boulder that was twice Gimli’s height.  He stood for a moment, staring into the inky dark of the passage ahead, and then jumped lightly down.  He was smiling as Gimli joined him.  “They carry torches.  There are twelve of them, four torchbearers and eight others.  They are mountain goblins, and they bear swords, spears, and linked mail armor.  There are three archers.”

Gimli blinked at this sudden flood of information.  “They outnumber us six to one.” 

Legolas gave him a scornful look.  “Do you wish to turn back, Dwarf?  I can manage this little party, if you are afraid.”

Gimli glared at him.  “A dozen Orcs is nothing for a Dwarf.  I only meant that an ambush would be our best strategy.”

Legolas nodded.  “We must dispatch this group quickly.  It is likely a scouting party sent to investigate Pippin’s stone.  But more will come, roused by your shout at the cross-road.”

Gimli gritted his teeth for a moment.  “Do you take me for a fool, Elf?  The Orc stronghold will be far deeper than this level.  We have passed no other wells or shafts.  My locator cry would never travel so far.  If we eliminate these scouts no others will trouble us.”

Legolas shifted his grip on his bow.  “We have not explored all passages.  You cannot be certain of that.”  They glared at each other for a moment, and then Legolas sighed and looked up the corridor again.  “It does not matter.  We can cope with Orcs.”  For a moment it seemed as though he would say something more, but he was silent.

Gimli hefted his axe impatiently.  “So we ambush them,” he prompted.

Legolas nodded distractedly.  “Yes.  Wait here, and stay behind these boulders.  I will go ahead.  After they pass me, but before they reach you, I will draw their attention.  They will turn their backs to you, and then you may complete the trap.”

Gimli opened his mouth to protest, but the Elf was already moving.  He slipped easily between the boulders at the right hand side of the passage, then paused and glanced back.  “Keep your torch hidden, and stay behind the rocks until the bow work is done and I signal you.  I would not wish to take you for an Orc in this dark.”  And before Gimli could think of a response to that, Legolas was gone.

Standing to his full height, Gimli could just look over the nearest boulder.  He followed the Elf’s progress as Legolas ran lightly ahead.  Despite the glow that surrounded him, Legolas was actually hard to see.  Somehow he seemed to fade against the rocks and chipped columns.  It was clear that he did know something about concealment, Gimli acknowledged grudgingly.  Legolas was careful to stay on the right hand side of the passage, presumably keeping the rubble and side columns between him and the approaching Orcs that Gimli could not see.  He made no noise as he moved swiftly over the loose rubble.  Were it not for the contrast that his light made in the absolute dark of the passage, the Elf would have been impossible to detect at all.

Gimli watched until Legolas vanished behind a column, and then settled down with his back to the boulder.  He propped his torch against a nearby mound of rubble and ran his hand slowly over the edge of his axe.  That fool Elf had better not get himself killed.  He’d be even more of a hindrance dead than he is alive.  He did not acknowledge the faint worry that twisted in his gut.  Nor did he recognize the fleeting sense that, were something to happen to the Elf, he would miss him.

*~*~*

Legolas ran easily until he could no longer see Gimli’s torchlight.  The absolute black of the passage closed in around him, relieved only slightly by the faint glow immediately about his own body.  He trailed his hands over the boulders that littered his path, creeping silently through them until he had counted 200 steps from the Dwarf’s position.  He looked back, but Gimli had concealed himself well, and no sound or flicker of light betrayed the Dwarf’s position.

Pleased, Legolas selected a cluster of boulders that ranged from eight to ten feet high, with considerably greater girth.  He leaped up onto the smallest one and looked over its neighbor and down the passage.  There were the Orc torches, and the figures themselves were easily distinguishable in their light.  They were perhaps 300 yards down the corridor, though it was difficult to judge distance in the unrelieved darkness of the passage.  He could hear them clearly, as they walked with the swift chittering gate of mountain goblins.  Legolas stretched carefully along the top of his boulder.  The larger rocks around it would conceal him from their sight.  They might still catch his scent, but there was nothing he could do about that.  He listened closely, tracking their progress toward him.

This was a waiting game he had played many times, with spiders and Orcs in the southern regions of his father’s kingdom.  Closing his eyes to the blank darkness about him, he could almost pretend he was back there now.  The sound and stench of approaching Orcs was the same.  But the cold stone beneath his cheek held none of the life present in even the sleepiest of Mirkwood’s trees, and the silence made it more difficult to track the Orcs.  He was used to sensing the Enemy’s minions through the change in the forest tone, and his own ears seemed a poor substitute. 

But they were coming . . . closer now.  He doubted that they had anything to do with the greater evil that brooded in the depths below, but they were still servants of the Shadow.  This was a threat he could counter, an enemy he could defeat.  So long had they walked in Shadow, with the weight of stone and malice growing ever stronger until he thought his very soul would be crushed under the strain.  So long had he struggled to compensate for the loss of Ilúvatar’s Song, fighting his own mind and ingrained responses until it seemed that he must escape this tomb somehow or go mad.  Now finally, finally there was an escape, an outlet for the endless tension.  He listened to the Orcs draw closer, and his heart thrummed in anticipation.

They were nearly to him.  They were passing directly below.  They were moving past.  Legolas shifted forward just enough to see the glow of their torches as they went by.  There, they were past him.  If he waited until they were just a little further on, in range of the Dwarf . . . suddenly, one of the rear-guard stopped.  Legolas froze.  He had made no noise, and he was certain the creature could not see him.  The Orc snuffed the air, turning its flat face upward.  It growled something to its companions in the black speech, and Legolas flinched in pain as the evil tongue assaulted his ears.

The other Orcs stopped, and shuffled about, sniffing the air.  Legolas did not wait for more.  Clearly they had scented him, though how they could smell anything through their own thick stench was beyond him.  If he remained atop the boulder he risked being surrounded.  He leaped to his feet and cried loudly, “Gilthoniel A Elbereth!”  The Orcs were turning toward him, dropping their torches as they drew their swords, and he leaped down with an arrow already nocked to his bow.  He fired the first shot while still in mid-air, and three more followed in swift succession.  The fourth Orc was dead before the first had yet fallen to the ground, but the remaining eight had overcome their shock and were racing toward him.  He strung two arrows simultaneously and shot one Orc between the eyes while the second arrow sang past its ear and into the neck of the companion behind it.  He was aiming by instinct – there was no time to sight along the arrow shaft, and it was too dark anyway.  The bow was a part of him; he could feel that the shot was true even as he released the string, and the song of battle pulsed through his veins.

But they were upon him now, and there was no room for bow work.  In a single swift movement he stowed his bow at his back and drew out his knives.  They flashed white in the torchlight and he spun, stabbing one Orc through the chest.  The knife stuck there and he let it go, continuing his turn to slash another through the throat and making a full circle to pull the knife from the first Orc’s chest even before it slumped to the ground.  None were firing arrows now – the fight was too close and hot for that.  He lifted his head and called “Khazad!  Khazad ai-mênu!”  And he smiled to hear the sound of a Dwarven battle cry from an Elven throat.  What would my father think to hear that?  Then he heard Gimli’s answering cry, and the Orcs closed in upon him, and there was no more time for thought.

*~*~*

That fool Elf should have let them come closer to me, Gimli thought as he raced forward.  He left his torch behind and gripped his axe in his right hand as he ran.  He had been startled to hear Dwarf speech in a musical Elven voice, but it was clearly the signal Legolas had spoken of.  He pushed his legs to carry him faster as he pounded up the middle of the corridor.  There was no point in concealment now, and Gimli did not intend to go stumbling through the rubble at the sides.  As it was he’d be lucky to get there before the Orcs finished the Elf off.  Then as he reached the torches that flared up where the Orcs had dropped them, he paused to collect his bearings.  Looking up, he saw the fight for the first time, and caught his breath.

Legolas was dancing.  Or at least, that was what it looked like.  Gimli could not see the surrounding Orcs – they were only small black shadows in the darkness that occasionally passed between him and the shining Elf at their center.  Legolas whirled and raised a knife, and there was a shower of sparks as he caught an Orc blade in a ring of metal on metal.  Then the sword was gone, drawn back into the mass of shadows, and the Elf was spinning in another direction.  His long golden hair fell over his shoulders as he completed the turn, a white blade slashed and Legolas leaped away from a gout of black blood that was just visible in the glow around him.

The Elf’s eyes were shining, and though his face was drawn in concentration, he was alive with the grace and beauty of his dance.  Gimli stood frozen for a long moment, watching.  Something shifted in his chest, and for one instant he was grateful just for the chance to witness such a sight.  Then he caught the flat gleam of eyes as an Orc slipped between the archer and the boulder at his back, and he found his voice.  “Elf!  Behind you!”

Legolas did not look at him or say a word, but he suddenly leaped straight up and back to land on top of the boulder behind him.  The Orcs stumbled in confusion at the sudden disappearance of their foe, but Gimli did not pause to marvel at this latest feat of Elven gymnastics.  He took two strides forward and planted his feet, and the first swing of his axe neatly parted an Orc from its head.  The second was more prepared, and parried his blow with its sword.  Gimli twisted his axe around and swung it down, forcing the Orc blade to the ground.  Then with a sudden jerk he snapped the Orc sword and brought his axe swinging up to cleave through the plate armor at its chest.

There was a flash of gold as Legolas leaped overhead, and then the Elf was blocking the last Orc as it advanced upon Gimli.  Gimli wrenched his axe free from the chest of his foe and turned.  Legolas was parrying a massive Orc that blocked his knife with its sword and then thrust forward a long spear, forcing the Elf to leap back.  Gimli circled carefully, watching.  The Orc was grunting in excitement, all its attention focused on the Elf before it.  Legolas leaped to the side, and the Orc turned to follow, and Gimli saw his chance.  With a great swing he cleaved the Orc’s helm and split the creature’s head in two.  There was a sudden wash of blood, and Gimli staggered as the stench hit him.  Then he saw the flash of a blade from the corner of his eye, and he pulled up his axe handle to block it.  There was a clash of metal, and he found himself blocking Legolas’ knife.

Elf and Dwarf stood frozen for a moment, staring at one another over their locked weapons, and then they broke apart and whirled to stand back to back.  But the corridor was empty.  All the Orcs lay dead, and their torches guttered on the stone floor.  Gimli could feel his heart pounding, and the heat of Legolas at his back.

All was silent.  Legolas could hear the Dwarf’s heavy breathing, and feel his own adrenaline start to fade.  He had slashed to catch the Orc, and been surprised to find that Gimli had already done it.  I shall have to remember that in the future, he thought absently, the Dwarf can be relied on in battle.  Then Gimli gave a great cry, and Legolas turned to see the Dwarf lift his axe over his head in triumph.  “Ai!  Ai yi Khazad ai-mênu!”

Legolas laughed aloud in a rush of relief.  Two members of the Fellowship had defeated twelve of the Enemy’s servants!  Surely Elbereth herself guided them.  What could Shadow do to them?  Stone and death and shadow and flame – they would face them all, and they would defeat them.  He spun lightly on the ball of his foot.  “Gurth an Glamhoth!”

Elf and Dwarf looked at one another, and laughed.

*~*~*

Gilthoniel A Elbereth!  Elven battle cry, “Elbereth Starkindler.”  Source:  The TwoTowers and The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 211

Khazad ai-mênu!  Dwarven battle cry, “The Dwarves are upon you.”  Source:  The TwoTowers.

Gurth an Glamhoth!  “Death to the din-horde (Orcs)”  Source:  Tuor’s cursing of the Orcs, The Silmarillion, translation provided by www.councilofelrond.com

Coming soon: Chapter 5.  Meddling in the affairs of Wizards.

Disclaimer:  All characters and places belong to the Tolkien estate.  They're probably happier there anyway.

Chapter 5:  Conversations part I

Still flushed with victory, Gimli lowered his axe.  His heart was pounding, but his breath was beginning to slow as the exhilaration faded.  He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands, trying to work the stiffness from his fingers.  The axe was well crafted but heavy, and required tremendous strength as well as skill.  He had once in his youth neglected to stretch after a weapons practice session.  The resulting cramps of his shoulders and back had kept him awake for a full night.  It was not a mistake he would repeat.

A few feet before him, Legolas turned away and went to collect his arrows.  As he stooped over the bodies, a lock of hair fell forward against his cheek again and he tucked it absently back into a restraining braid.

Gimli glanced around.  Two of the Orcs’ torches were sputtering not far away, and he caught one up.  Carefully he picked his way past the bodies and walked back along the central path to the boulders where he had left his own makeshift torch.  The rags were charred and smoldering feebly.  Gimli dislodged them by scraping the axe against a nearby rock.  He had just stamped out the last of the rags and was inspecting the axe head when Legolas stepped into the glow of his torch.

“Ha, you see Master Elf?” Gimli said, holding up the axe.  The head was blackened and sooty, but the weapon was essentially undamaged.  “The finest tempered iron, still perfectly sharp.  None can match Dwarven weapons for quality.”

Legolas glanced at the throwing axe as Gimli tucked it carefully into his belt.  “Perhaps, Master Dwarf.  However, my own weapons are also undamaged, and I believe that your large axe is notched.  But you will have to clean both weapons before they are serviceable again.”  He quickly unbuckled his quiver and pulled several rubbing cloths from its depths.  He handed three to Gimli and kept one for himself.  Gimli saw that he was holding six Elven arrows fletched with green and brown.  He had left the black Orc arrows where they lay.  Legolas quickly wiped the gore from his arrows and slipped them into his quiver.  He had completed all of this and swung the quiver back into place before Gimli had quite made up his mind what to do with the cloths he had been given.  He was reluctant to accept anything from the Elf, but Legolas did have a point.  Finally it was the thought of what Glóin would say if his son neglected basic weapons care that made Gimli swallow his objections and begin rubbing one of the cloths over his large axe’s blade.  It was notched, he noted ruefully, but it would serve.

Legolas glanced at the Dwarf as he fell into step beside him.  The Elf had drawn one of his white knives and was cleaning it as he walked.  “You should wash your face and hair as well, Master Dwarf.  You stink of Orc blood.”

Gimli ground his teeth at the insult and glared at the Elf.  In truth he was spattered liberally with black blood that clung to his face and clothes and matted his beard.  Legolas, he noted with disgust, was as fresh as he had been before they entered Moria.  Not a hair out of place, not a streak of dust or sweat or blood anywhere.  It was unnatural, and annoying.

“We Dwarves are not so vain as Elves,” he said.  “A little blood is nothing.  It will not hinder me.”

“That may be.  At least the smell does not seem to bother you.  But when that blood dries it will be impossible to wash out.  I can cut it out of your beard, if you like.”  There was a faintly mischievous lilt to Legolas’ voice.

Gimli hunched his shoulders and wadded the cleaning cloths in his hand.  Oh yes, he had no doubt that the Elf would take pleasure in mutilating his beard.  It had been the target of several Elven pranks and insults already in their journey.  But his pride stubbornly resisted taking Legolas’ advice.  He might have cleaned the blood from his face and clothes on his own after he had finished with his weapons.  But the Elf’s arrogant suggestion grated against him, and he would not give him the satisfaction of seeming to follow it.

Several minutes passed, during which Legolas walked quietly, unconcernedly inspecting the silver design of his knife blade, and Gimli grumbled under his breath.  He could feel the gore stiffening on his cheeks, and his beard itched abominably.  Finally Gimli gave in and, with a distinct growl of irritation, scrubbed a clean cloth over his face.  Legolas sheathed his knife and drew the other in one smooth motion.  Gimli half expected him to produce a comb next, but the archer only walked on in silence, carefully wiping blood from the joint of the handle and blade of his long knife.

Gimli had finally managed to clean most of the blood from his face and beard when Legolas stopped.  The Elf stood in the corridor with his head cocked to one side, frowning slightly.  At Gimli’s questioning look Legolas only shook his head and began walking again.  But the playful light was gone from his eyes, and he watched the shadowed side-columns warily as they passed.

Gimli was relaxed, swinging his axe casually in his left hand as he walked.  But Legolas grew more and more tense as they approached the junction of their passage with the staircase.  He had sheathed his knife and drawn his bow.  The pressing weight of stone and malice was growing stronger as they neared their starting point.  The desolate silence, almost forgotten in the rush of battle, was overwhelming.  The ache of it resonated in Legolas’ bones and roared in his ears.  He found himself speaking just to fill that emptiness, his voice lost in the void around them.

“It must be cold in the mines.”

Gimli frowned at him.  “What?”

“I have not paid attention.  But you must feel the cold more than I.”

Gimli shook his head in confusion.  “Are all Elves trained to talk nonsense, or were you just born this way?”

Legolas looked at him, one eyebrow raised.  “You take such offense at the suggestion to trim your beard.  I know that mortals are more susceptible to cold, but I had not realized you needed so much hair to keep warm.”

Gimli stared at him for a long moment, his mouth open.  “You think . . . you think that Dwarf beards are . . . used for warmth?”  He couldn’t help it.  A deep laugh rumbled from the depths of his chest and he threw back his head and roared.  The puzzled look on Legolas’ face only made him laugh harder.  The rich sound echoed through the vast caverns until the pillars rang with mirth.

For an instant Legolas felt the weight of malice about them lift.  The Dwarf’s laughter filled the silence and the tension that knotted the back of Legolas’ neck eased.  Here at least was the sound of life, and Legolas had the sudden thought that Dwarves were a part of Ilúvatar’s will too.  Strange that he had never considered that before.  But it did nothing to lessen the confusion he felt.  He waited until Gimli’s laughter had slackened to a few disconnected guffaws.

“It makes sense,” Legolas insisted when he could make himself heard.  “The men of Dale do not wear such heavy beards, nor do Aragorn or Boromir.  Dwarves must need them for protection from the cold of the mountain caves.  Why else would you weigh yourselves down with the things?”

Gimli wiped away a few tears and brought his breathing under control.  “Aragorn and Boromir couldn’t grow a proper beard if they tried.  It is a gift to Mahal’s children.  And this,” he stroked his thick red tresses, “is as fine a specimen as you are ever likely to see, Master Elf.”

Legolas looked at him doubtfully.  “Still, it must serve some purpose.  The Valar do not give gifts without reason.”

Gimli shrugged.  “As for that, you’ll have to ask them when you see them, Master Elf.  Maybe it did serve for additional warmth, once.  But it is much more a sign of strength.  A Dwarf cannot braid his beard until he has proven himself a warrior and craftsman.  I thought it was the same for you.”

Legolas lifted a hand and fingered the small braid above his ear.  He smiled slightly.  “Yes, I suppose a warrior’s braids are a sign of accomplishment.  A child does not wear them.  But a child does not need to.  An archer must keep his lock point clear.”

At Gimli’s confused expression Legolas drew an arrow and nocked it.  Slowly he bent his bow, drawing the nock back to the corner of his mouth.  “The draw must be smooth, the release perfect.  Were my hair loose, it would get tangled in the bowstring.  Besides,” he added as he lowered the bow, “a warrior cannot fight if his hair falls in his eyes.”  He tilted his head.  “Does not your fine beard interfere with your movements?”

Gimli snorted.  In truth he had once singed his beard badly when he had bent too close to his father’s forge.  But he was not about to admit that to the Elf.  “It is no concern.  A warrior’s rank is more important than such trifles.”

Legolas smiled.  “As for that, we unbraid our hair when at peace.  But I suppose that Dwarven vanity cannot be swayed by the practicality of the Elves.”

It was some time before Gimli could think of a response to that.  They had reached the ascending staircase when he muttered, “Elven practicality.  Hmph.  Why don’t you cut off all that hair, if you’re so practical?”  He glanced hopefully at Legolas to see if this retort had hit home, but the Elf was not listening.

He stood staring up the black stair, arrow nocked and bow half drawn.  Every line of his body was drawn in ratcheted tension.  He stood absolutely still for a moment, then whispered, so soft that Gimli could barely hear him, “It draws nearer.  We have tarried too long.”  With that he sheathed his arrow and ran, hardly seeming to touch the crumbling steps as he flew up them.  Gimli was forced to follow as best as he could, and soon was too short of breath to voice the curses he longed to utter against Elves who made needlessly cryptic remarks.

Legolas ran.  He flew up the twisted steps, the musty air gritty in his throat and his bow clenched tightly in his hand.  With every step he felt the Presence grow stronger, a crushing weight of Shadow and hate that pressed against him.

He reached the top of the stair and nearly stumbled at the abrupt change of the stone beneath his feet.  He froze, standing in the complete darkness and listening intently.  He could feel the faint shift of air currents against his face as he stood in the archway before the three passages.  There was the taste of iron like bitter shavings on his tongue.  The resonant malice was stronger, bearing down upon him.  He turned his head toward it and knew that he faced the central corridor, though he could see nothing.

There is nothing there, he told himself firmly.  It is still far off.  It may not come here at all.  But the pounding of his heart betrayed this lie.  Every instinct he possessed was screaming to run, to get away from this cage of stone and hate.  As he stood, straining his eyes against the almost tangible dark, he expected every moment to feel the feather light brush of Shadow against his cheek.  He dared not name the thing he felt in the depths, but in truth it mattered not.  The Ring called, and he felt the inexorable response.  It was coming.  Phantom shadows brushed his mind.  Flame licked his skin like the caress of a lover in the dark.

With every fiber of his being he longed to turn, to flee back to where the Fellowship waited.  To find Mithrandir.  He clung to the fraying tatters of his reason, slipping on the knife-edge of logic.  The Dwarf.  You must wait for the Dwarf.  It was courage in its most primal form, the need to protect another.  He clung to it.  He could hear the clatter of Gimli’s heavy boots on the stairs.  He forced himself to focus on the sound, to ignore the menacing Shadow, the death whisper in the dark.

He could have sobbed for relief when Gimli’s torch finally appeared, followed by Gimli.  The light was nothing, mere absence of the physical dark, nothing to the Shadow.  But Legolas could see again!  He looked back at the central corridor, feeling that feather touch brush his neck.  And of course, there was nothing there.

A deep voice wheezed behind him.  “Crazy Elf.  In the mines . . . you wait . . . for the torch to go first.  Running off . . . in the dark . . . you could have been killed!”

Legolas turned resolutely away from the dark passage.  Gimli was bent over his axe, panting heavily, his scavenged torch dipping dangerously close to the floor.  It was all Legolas could do not to snatch the torch from him and sprint up the side corridor to where Mithrandir waited.

“Very well then, Master Dwarf,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady.  “You will go first.”  He gestured toward the smaller side corridor.  He could have screamed when Gimli did nothing for a moment but stand there, his breath coming more slowly, his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Is this what our history leads us to, he thought wildly, slaves to mistrust when the very fires of Morgoth are upon us?

But Aragorn had said that even the Dwarf felt the Shadow.  Legolas thought that unlikely, but he was desperate.  He dared not speak of it openly, not even to Mithrandir, but surely there was some way of reasoning with the Dwarf.

“We must leave this place,” he said softly, stepping forward and looking directly into Gimli’s eyes.  “Your people are gone.  This is not their home, not any more.  Something is coming, and we must find the others.  Now.”

Gimli met his eyes squarely, and Legolas saw a flicker of pain in their depths.  Then the Dwarf glanced past him, at the central corridor, and seemed to shiver slightly.  He closed his eyes and nodded.  Then he turned and, lifting his torch high, stumped down the side passage without a word.

Legolas followed, forcing his steps to match the Dwarf’s shorter stride.  He could feel the Shadow as it brooded over them, and a spot between his shoulder blades itched as though expecting a touch from behind.  He held himself to a walk, focusing his eyes on the Dwarf’s torch, his back and neck tensed against the threat.

Finally they reached the small room where the Fellowship waited.  Gimli slipped inside without a backward glance, but Legolas stood for a long moment against the door, gazing into the dark.  His hands ached from their tight grip on his bow, his mouth was dry and his heart pounded in his ears.  They had distanced themselves from that evil, but it could not be avoided forever.  The passage was silent, the air cold and dry in his lungs.  The threat was growing like a black cancer in his mind.  But it had not found them yet.  Legolas forced his left hand to loosen from his bow, willed it to stop shaking.  He turned away from the resonant Shadow and entered the chamber.

Gimli was speaking, his rough voice lowered in an approximation of a whisper.  The Dwarf still seemed loud to Legolas’ ears, and he marveled that their companions slept on undisturbed.  “The left hand passage leads to an Orc road.  There must be a stronghold down there.  We encountered one scouting party and dispatched it.  It will be some time before any others come from that place.”

Mithrandir was nodding.  “What of the other passages?”

Legolas moved forward to join them.  “We had no time to investigate the upward passage.  The central corridor is dark.  We dare not take that road.”  He met Mithrandir’s eyes, willing the wizard to understand what he could not say aloud.  There was too much power in the words.  Elves had been the first people to ever use spoken language.  They had taught the power to others, Ents and even trees to a lesser extent.  But they were the first, they were the Quendi.  There was power in Elvish speech and song, and Legolas felt in his soul that naming the thing would make it more real, would draw it to them as surely as the Ring’s call.  Mithrandir returned his gaze, and Legolas thought he caught a glint of understanding in his sharp eyes.

Then the wizard turned to the Dwarf at his side.  “What say you, Gimli?  Is the right hand corridor our only choice?”  Legolas stiffened.  Mithrandir had never before asked another to verify the Elf’s impressions. 

Gimli glanced at Legolas, then back at Gandalf.  The Dwarf shifted his weight uncomfortably.  “The Elf has been even flightier than usual since we entered the mines.  But the straight passage does seem to trouble him a great deal.  And . . . there is a feel about it that I do not like.  The air currents are wrong somehow.”  He glanced again at Legolas, and then looked at the ground.  “We can take the higher road.”

Mithrandir nodded.  “Your counsel agrees with my own thought.  We will take the upward passage.”

Legolas let out his breath in a swell of relief.  They would climb up, away from Shadow, away from this tomb!  He turned away, intending to wake Aragorn.  But he had only taken a few steps toward the Ranger when Mithrandir called him back.  The wizard’s voice was scarce above a whisper, but Legolas heard him clearly, and stopped.  He looked back, questioning, to where Mithrandir sat with pipe in hand, Gimli still close by.

“We cannot leave just yet, Legolas.  The Company has only rested a few hours, and we have far to travel.  The Hobbits must gain strength ere we continue.  And you and Gimli have yet to sleep at all.”

Legolas’ shoulders drew back as he inhaled slowly.  “There will be time to rest after we leave the mines.”

Mithrandir’s eyes narrowed.  “We may never escape the mines at all if we run ourselves to exhaustion.”

Legolas turned fully to face the wizard.  “I would follow your counsel, Mithrandir, but we have no time.  We must go now.”

Mithrandir’s voice was calm.  “Must we, Legolas?  Think.  We are sheltered.  We are as safe here as we will ever be in this place.  We have had a hard journey, and it will get harder.  The Company cannot go on without rest.”

Legolas’ jaw clenched.  How could he speak so calmly of waiting, resting, delaying when the weight of Shadow grew stronger with every minute?  How could he deny the evil in this tomb?  The Elf breathed deeply for a moment and kept his voice under tight control when he finally spoke.  No quaver betrayed the pounding of his heart.  “There are greater things at stake than the night’s sleep of this Company.  Think what we risk by waiting.  Will you delay until –” His voice choked and he stopped, breathing hard.

Mithrandir stood and crossed over to the Elf.  The craggy face was lined and hollowed in the dim light, the sharp eyes cast in shadow.  His voice was very soft.  “How far can you run, Legolas?  Can you run fast enough, fight hard enough, to defeat that which you fear?  Would you fear it if you could?”  He stepped close, and Legolas could feel the warmth that radiated from him.  “Trust me, Thranduilion.  I will not lead us astray.”

Legolas gazed into the old face.  How long had Mithrandir guided them?  Not just the Fellowship, but all of them, Elves and Men and Hobbits and Dwarves.  Elven memory did not fade with time.  It seemed to Legolas, as he thought back, that Mithrandir had always been there.  Never overbearing, never intruding, but always there if needed.  His had been a quiet voice of wisdom and comfort, even to the youngest Elf-child of Thranduil’s kingdom.  A mortal might have mistaken him for a Man, withered and bent with age as he appeared.  But no Elf would ever have made that mistake.  Mithrandir’s wisdom ran deeper than the ages.  He did not merely resonate with Ilúvatar’s Song, he was Song.  As he looked into the Maia’s eyes, for a moment it seemed that Legolas could hear it, clear and soft in the void.

“I do trust you, Mithrandir.  Always have I done so.”  His voice was a scarce breath in the stillness.  In his agitation he slipped between Westron and Sindarin without noticing.  “I would follow you, even were you to lead us on the straight road.  But this . . . this is madness.  You doubt my words, you seek a Dwarf’s counsel over mine . . .” chittering in the back of his mind, go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes . . . go not to the Elves for counsel . . .  “I was chosen for this Fellowship for a reason.  What I sense is real.  It is coming.  You know this.”

Mithrandir nodded.  “I know.  And I know that you are strong, and brave, and wise, Legolas.  You will not be driven to folly, not by stone or by Shadow.  I seek Gimli’s counsel because he is at home here, as we are not.  There is great wisdom in the Dwarves, if you would see it.  What will be, must be.  Our Doom is laid before us, and it is folly to cheat fate.”

Legolas shook his head.  “You speak of fate, but I cannot see it.  Do you know what this Doom is, Mithrandir?  Can you be so certain it is our path?  I feel Shadow and malice and power, as I have never felt before.  Something seeks us, I know this, but what is it?  How can we face it?”

The wizard sighed.  “I would comfort you if I could, Legolas.  There are legends of course, but the not even the Wise can be certain of Durin’s Bane.  But we must have faith.  What darkness may come, it will be defeated.”

Legolas closed his eyes.  He swayed slightly as a wave of fear and despair washed over him.  His voice was gone, a mere breath in his throat, but he spoke as clearly as he could past the knot in his chest.  “I am not Glorfindel, Mithrandir.  I cannot . . .”

Gnarled hands grabbed his shoulders and the Istar pulled him into a rough hug.  “I know.  I know.  You are Greenleaf, and that, my friend, is more than enough.  I would have no other.”

Legolas leaned into the embrace for a moment, breathing the familiar scent of pipeweed and wood smoke and feeling the rough wool of the wizard’s cloak beneath his cheek.  He was shaking.  The Maia was as ancient and strong as the stars, and to his shame he found that he needed that strength.  “You choose this path,” he whispered.

Mithrandir stepped back and looked at him for a long moment.  “I do.  We are bound to this fate, Legolas.  It is my choice, and my right.”

Legolas drew a shuddering breath, and bowed his head.

*~*~*

Coming soon:  Chapter 6.  Our favorite Elf and Dwarf have a chat.

A/N:  Portions of dialogue in this chapter are lifted intact from page 354 of the Fellowship of the Ring, the new movie-cover edition published by Ballantine Books.  (My beloved 1973 Houghton-Mifflin edition is falling apart).

Disclaimer:  Still don’t own them.  If they ask me to stop, I will.  But oh, Tolkien’s world is fun!

Chapter 6:  Conversations part II

Gimli sat near his bedroll, watching through heavy eyes as Gandalf and Legolas argued.  Their voices were so soft that he could hardly hear them, and what few words he caught were in a language unknown to him.  Elf and wizard stood, tense and angry, and then suddenly Gandalf swept Legolas into a brief hug.  When they broke apart the Elf seemed subdued.  He turned from the wizard and walked silently to the doorway, where he stood looking out into the dark passage.  Gandalf made his way back to his bedroll and sat against the wall, staring into space and turning his pipe slowly in his hands.

Gimli cast himself down on his blankets.  It appeared that the Elf had been overruled, and they would stay here a few hours longer.  Gimli viewed this development with mixed emotion.  Despite himself, he had come to trust the archer’s senses, and it seemed strange to disregard his warning.  There was something about that central passage he did not like, and much as he wished to pass Legolas’ words off as Elvish fancy, he could not deny the sense of dread that churned his stomach.  He would be glad when they were quit of this chamber.

But he was bone weary, and his back and shoulders ached.  He could not go further without some rest.  So, trusting Gandalf to stand guard, he closed his eyes and cast himself into sleep.

It seemed that he had only rested a moment when he was shaken awake again.  Blearily he looked to see Aragorn kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder.  The Ranger’s face was lined and weary, but he smiled as Gimli heaved himself up.  “Gather your things, Master Dwarf.  We have much ground to cover.”  Gimli nodded sleepily and accepted the rations that Aragorn offered him.  He was stiff and a muscle pulled in his back as he gathered up his bedroll.  He could hear Gandalf telling the Hobbits that they would take the right hand passage.

“It is time we began to climb up again,” the wizard said, and at this Gimli shot a quick glance at Legolas.  The Elf stood in the doorway, exactly as if he had never moved since Gimli lay down, save that he now carried his small pack as well as his quiver and knives.  He showed no reaction to Gandalf’s words, but turned and smiled briefly as Aragorn joined him.  The Ranger held something out to the Elf.  Legolas glanced at it and shook his head.  There was a brief dispute, which ended when Aragorn shoved something into the archer’s hand and stepped back, glaring at him.  Legolas glared back, but accepted it with poor grace.  The Elf turned back to regard the outside passage again, and Gimli saw that the item in his hand was a bit of bread and dried meat.  He nibbled at it reluctantly, and as the Company set out Gimli was vaguely aware of Aragorn watching Legolas until the Elf finished it all.

They made good time through the dark passages.  Gimli led the way with Gandalf while the rest of the Fellowship ranged along behind.  Legolas and Aragorn brought up the rear.  Gandalf seemed more sure of their way, and Gimli felt a faint sense of relief as they climbed away from the central corridor.

They walked on for eight long hours, and ever there was nothing to see but the wizard’s light stretching away into the blank darkness.  Gimli soon settled into the steady, mile-eating stride of the Dwarves.  The stiffness faded as his muscles warmed to the journey, and his hands swung loose at his sides.  He was relaxed, his axe stowed securely at his back.  Save for an occasional check behind to ensure that the Hobbits were not in difficulty, he was able to forget their peril and take comfort in the steady ring of his boots against rock, the solid weight of good stone around him.

And yet, as much as he tried to keep his mind blank, images from the previous night kept intruding:  the harsh scream of an Orc, the stench of foul blood; the Elf dancing golden and deadly in the dark; the touch of his hand against cool rock and the sense that maybe, just maybe, there could be something more; the shock of pain and loss as he stood before the straight passage and knew that his people’s kingdom was forever gone.

A swell of pain and resentment welled in Gimli’s chest, and he cast a glance behind him.  He could just see Legolas, shining faintly in the gloom.  Those Orcs were mine.  The Elf should have left them to me.  It is not his home that was invaded, not his kin driven and ruined.  He does not suffer.

But when they finally came to a halt for the night he saw that this was not true.  All the Company was weary, but Legolas seemed drawn to a fine edge between pain and trepidation.  His usual mischievous air was completely gone, and even the light that shone about him seemed to have dimmed.  He stood apart and silent, and watched the dark.

The rest of the Fellowship was also looking around, although the Hobbits immediately sank down and did their looking from a seated position while unpacking food supplies.  Pippin was rubbing his feet and grumbling softly to Merry.

There was a great draught of cooler air and the Dwarf knew they had entered an immense hall, far greater than any they had yet passed.  Gimli turned his face up and smiled at the feel of the cool air against his skin.  The Company’s voices seemed small and lost in the echoing dark.

“Now I will risk a little real light,” murmured Gandalf, and there was a flash that dazzled Gimli’s eyes.  Shadows leaped up and away, sliding back from immense columns that towered over them.  Endless passages stretched away before them, wrought with detailed carvings.  The black walls were polished and shone like glass, despite the long years.  Gimli felt tears sting his eyes as he beheld his people’s greatest glory.  Carved from solid rock, hollowed by generations of loving toil, hallowed by Dwarven hands and Dwarven hearts, this was the Dwarrowdelf.  Gimli fell to his knees, unnoticed as the others settled around him.  Child of the Lonely Mountain though he was, raised in the small forges and metal shops of the exiles, this was beyond all his experience.  He was lost, overwhelmed by the immensity of it all.  And yet, deep in his heart, he knew this place.  It was beyond his thought, beyond his imagining.  But it was the home of his soul. 

Then the light went out, and the hall fell back into darkness.

“There used to be great windows on the mountain side,” Gandalf was saying, “and shafts leading out to light in the upper reaches of the Mines.  I think we have reached them now, but it is night outside again, and we cannot tell until morning.”

There was a soft, choked sound behind Gimli, and he turned to see Legolas.  The Elf was standing still and straight in the great passage.  His face was turned up, searching as though to find the windows Gandalf spoke of.  But all was dark, and there was no hint of light from sun or stars.  Legolas’ face betrayed nothing, but Gimli read anguish in his eyes.  For a moment he felt a flash of pity for the Elf.

Then his attention was drawn away as Sam asked about the hall.  “There must have been a mighty crowd of Dwarves here at one time,” said the Hobbit as he munched a bit of cheese, “and every one of them busier than badgers for five hundred years to make all this, and most in hard rock too!  What did they do it all for?  They didn’t live in these darksome holes surely?”

Gimli rose to his feet.  The Hobbit could be forgiven his ignorance – after all he must have been somewhat isolated in the Shire.  But it was high time someone educated him.  Gimli had noted the odd reverence with which Sam seemed to hold Legolas, and indeed all things Elvish.  Clearly the boy needed a lesson in what a proper culture was like.

“These are not holes,” he said, and the Hobbits turned to look at him.  “This is the great realm and city of the Dwarrowdelf.  And of old it was not darksome, but full of light and splendour, as is still remembered in our songs.”  Closing his eyes, he cast his mind back to his youth, to the songs and tales told about a flickering fire.  The dreams held in the face of loss, the dreams of Khazad-dûm.

Slowly he chanted the song of exile, remembering the look of his father’s eyes in the firelight as Glóin told his son of their people’s heritage, and their people’s doom.  Gimli remembered the glory of Moria, and his heart ached at the desolation, the loss of such beauty.  He put this into his song, into the slow metre heavy with sorrow, and when it was finished, he fell silent.

*~*~*

Legolas was not listening to his companions’ conversation.  He had clung to discipline during their long march in the dark, schooling his mind desperately to the lessons of centuries past.  He could hear the dry voice of the archery master, seek a focus.  Concentrate on the target.  There is nothing else.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  There is nothing else.  He fixed his eyes on Mithrandir’s small light and tried to shut away the malicious death weight that pressed in upon him.  Slowly they had drawn away from the resonance of the straight road, and slowly his heart eased.  But it was only a slight reprieve, he knew that.  There was still evil in the stones, and Shadow still sought them.  And they had tarried, walking with slow steps in the dark, and now resting. 

Resting when they were so close to the end!  He could feel it, feel the lessening of the stone above them, the nearness of the stars.  Yet there was no light from window or hole, despite Mithrandir’s assurance that the shafts were there.  No star song reached him, though he strained to hear it.  The black wave of despair that followed this crushing disappointment threatened to drown him.  He could have run the length of the great hall, followed the slightest breath of fresh air, scaled the walls to escape this pit.  But they must stop, for the Hobbits could go no further.  So again he grasped the tatters of his warrior’s training, and grounded himself in duty.  He must protect the little ones.  He tried not to think of what he protected them from.

Still he could not help giving occasional glances toward Mithrandir.  He did not know if he sought to protect the wizard, or looked for reassurance from him.  In any case Mithrandir did not look at him.  The wizard sat back against the wall and watched the Hobbits with a bemused air.  His staff was propped beside him, and he held his unlit pipe in one hand.  Somehow the gesture seemed unbearably poignant.  Mithrandir had not changed in all the centuries, and he cheerfully disregarded Elven sensibilities.  The pipe was a part of him, and was likely to make an appearance in any serious discussion, whether it be in Mirkwood’s throne room or Elrond’s house of healing.  Thranduil had once complained that it was impossible to carry on an extended debate with Mithrandir, for the longer one talked with him the longer it would take to get the smell of pipeweed out of the tapestries.

Something stung Legolas’ throat, and he looked away.  It is his choice.  His right.  But his heart cried out within him.

“You are troubled.”  Aragorn’s voice came softly as the Ranger joined him.  Legolas swallowed hard and then looked at him.  He raised one eyebrow in deliberate imitation of normal Elven playfulness.  “Is that the astute observation of a Ranger experienced in reading subtle clues?”

The corner of Aragorn’s mouth quirked.  “It is the observation of a friend, and an offering of support.  And no, the clues are not subtle.”

Legolas smiled back faintly, and then tilted his head as he caught the faint shuffle of bare feet in the dark, as he had done so often during their long march.  “Gollum tracks us still.  He is there, somewhere.”

Aragorn studied him.  “It was to be expected, I suppose.  He is used to life in the dark.  Is that all?”

Yes, Legolas longed to say.  Yes, that is all, just a footpad in the dark, and a foolish Elf trapped in the caves.  Do not concern yourself, do not fear, be at peace, mellon nîn.  “No,” he whispered.  “You said that you could feel the Shadow in this place, Aragorn.  It grows.  Something is coming, and I fear . . .”  Unbidden, his eyes turned back toward Mithrandir.

Aragorn’s rough hand, stained and blackened with toil, grasped his shoulder firmly.  “I do feel it.  But it seems no different to me now than it did last night.  Maybe less.”  He followed Legolas’ gaze to where the wizard sat talking with Sam.  “We must trust Gandalf.  Tomorrow we will see the sunlight, and we will escape this place.  Perhaps nothing will come of it.”  But the Ranger’s voice was tinged with fear, and his words rang hollow.

Legolas did not take his eyes from the wizard.  “Perhaps,” he said.

They were interrupted then by a most unlikely sound.  A rough, deep voice lifted in chanting song behind them, and the echoes ran away into the endless depths.  Aragorn and Legolas turned.  Gimli stood a short ways away, his eyes closed, his face half hidden in the shadows as he sang of the lost glory of Khazad-dûm.  Legolas exchanged a shocked look with Aragorn, and the Man smiled.  “Do not underestimate the Dwarves, Legolas.  They always find a way to surprise you.”  With that the Ranger moved away.  He settled his pack near Merry’s and leaned back to watch Gimli.

Legolas stayed where he was.  Do not underestimate the Dwarves.  His father, he knew, would have said that was not possible.  Certainly the song was what he might have expected from a Dwarf, had he ever stopped to consider what a Dwarf might sing about.  It was a glorification of riches and jewels, a tribute to material wealth that left Legolas cold.  But as he listened, Legolas heard something more.  There was memory in the Dwarf’s words, not of possessions but of accomplishments.  Gimli’s voice was full of love for the deep earth and pride in past glory, and a bone aching sorrow.  Almost, in that moment, almost the Dwarf sounded Elvish.

The song ended and the last echoes faded to silence.  The Hobbits set up a clamor of questions but Gimli turned away from them.  The Dwarf cast his hood over his face and settled against the wall near Legolas, away from the rest of the Company. 

Legolas turned away, gazing out into the vast hall.  Mithrandir was answering the Hobbits’ questions, describing the wonders that had once been found here.  Legolas did not listen, focused as he was on the black space around them.  Tales of mithril and gems did not interest him, though he did wonder briefly at the history behind Mithrandir’s story.  It seemed absurd to think that there had once been friendship between the Dwarves of Moria and the Elves of Hollin.  And yet the doors of Moria bore witness to the unlikely alliance.

What could a Dwarf offer that would be of worth to an Elf?  True, the Hollin Elves had been of the Noldor, and more likely to find value in stones and caverns than a Wood-elf ever could.  Was it love of metal craft that drove Celebrimbor to befriend the Dwarves?  Or was it friendship that fueled him to develop smith work, so rare among Elves?  Can it be that Middle-earth suffers because of friendship?  Are mortals truly so powerful, that their love can swing the fate of the world?

Legolas was pulled from these thoughts when Aragorn stirred and said, “The hour grows late.  We should set watches for the night and retire.” 

Mithrandir nodded.  “Have we any volunteers?”

Legolas started to speak, but Aragorn shot him a dark look and said, “Legolas will not stand guard.  Nor will you, Gandalf, or Gimli.  All of you need to sleep.”

Gimli did not look up from his position by the wall, but Mithrandir’s eyes twinkled as he nodded.  Legolas, however, narrowed his eyes at the Man and set his jaw.  Did Aragorn really think to command him to sleep in this tomb?

“I do not need sleep as you do, Aragorn,” he said.  “Nor will I find rest here, whether you set me a watch or not.  Does it make sense to weary other members of the Company when I will be alert in any case?”

Aragorn turned slowly to face him.  “Not even you can go without sleep indefinitely, Legolas.  I value your senses, but they will be of better use to us when you are rested.”

Legolas lifted his chin, but Boromir interrupted.  The Man had been characteristically taciturn all through their night march, but now he spoke, glancing between Legolas and Aragorn.  “Then let us compromise.  Legolas will take one watch, and he will rest during the others.  We must still decide how many watches we will set.  I will take one.”

“Three watches,” Mithrandir said.  “We cannot afford more than six hours rest.”  Legolas shot the wizard a look of pure gratitude.  For the sake of the Hobbits he knew they must stop, but every moment of delay grated upon him.

“I will take a watch,” Frodo said.  “I haven’t had one since before Caradhras.”  Aragorn looked at the Hobbit in surprise, but only nodded.  Perhaps he remembered the Ring-bearer’s words at the chasm they had jumped yesterday.

“Then Boromir will have the first watch, Frodo the second, and I will take the third,” Legolas said firmly.  Everyone turned to stare at him in surprise, and he looked back at them defiantly.  Rarely did he seek to command the group.  Usually he was content to only offer guidance and allow Mithrandir or Aragorn to make the decisions.  By temperament he was a quiet Elf, and did not seek to draw attention to himself.  But he had been raised a prince, and he had commanded scouting parties in his father’s service for two centuries.  He returned their looks with his best imitation of Thranduil’s imperious stare, and was rewarded when Aragorn sighed and threw up his hands in a combination of amusement and exasperation.  “Very well.  Then Boromir will wake Frodo in two hours time, and those of us not on watch will sleep now.”

There was a general murmur of agreement as the Company set out their sleeping rolls.  Aragorn fixed Legolas with a steely look until the Elf sighed and came to join them.  They were huddled in a corner away from the draught of cool air that ran through the great hall.  Legolas positioned his bedroll in a way to block as much of the draft as he could.  The cold did not bother him, but he had noticed Pippin shivering.

Aragorn and Gimli were both close by.  Aragorn had perhaps positioned himself with a similar intention, but Gimli gave no sign of noticing any of the others.  The Dwarf sat propped against the wall and stared blankly into the dark, his face half hidden by his hood.

Legolas stood by them, scanning the shadowed hall until an impatient snort from Aragorn brought him back to his immediate surroundings.  He sank down onto his blanket, folding his legs under him in a position that appeared relaxed but from which he could instantly spring up to action.  Aragorn seemed to accept this as the best he was likely to get.  The Ranger stretched out on his own bedroll and shut his eyes.  Legolas looked around at his companions.  All were preparing to rest, save Boromir, who sat at some distance away and was slowly running a cloth over the Horn of Gondor.  A soft chorus of somnolescent breathing already rose from the Hobbits’ sleeping pile.

“How can you sleep?”  Legolas murmured.  He might have been speaking to himself, save that he spoke in Westron. 

Aragorn opened one eye.  “We sleep because we have to, Legolas.  As you must.”

Legolas shook his head mutely, but Aragorn had already closed his eyes again.  Soon the Ranger’s breathing settled into the slow pattern that the Elf had grown accustomed to during their many journeys together.  Legolas watched him for a moment.  A faint crease lined Aragorn’s brow, even in sleep.  His eyes were sealed shut against the dark.

Mortals close their eyes to the world.  Can he so easily shut out the Shadow?  Legolas would not have dared to sleep under the threat, even had it been possible.  Elven dreams followed the pattern of their thoughts.  Though he could not see his surroundings when he slept, Legolas was always aware of them.  His dreams danced to the wheel of stars overhead and sang with the whisper of the night breeze.  He dared not think what form they would take here, in the stone and silence and weight of Shadow.  It was a part of the Gift of Ilúvatar, he supposed, that mortals could remove their dreams from their environment, and escape the circles of the world.

In truth Legolas was bone weary, exhausted in a way he had never been before.  It was not a weariness of flesh, but of soul.  He had not slept and hardly had eaten since they had entered Moria.  Normally this would not trouble him, but he needed more than food or sleep to sustain him.  The loss of Ilúvatar’s Song and the shutting away of the sun and stars wore upon him in a way that mere physical discomfort could not.  Though most mortals would not have discerned any difference in his appearance or movement, the weight of Shadow was taking its toll.  Even in the southern reaches of Mirkwood the black influence of Dol Guldor was relieved by the whisper of trees still friendly to the Elves, the occasional shafts of light that pierced the canopy.  But here there was no respite from the aching weight that bore down upon him. 

So often mortal senses had seemed dull to him, their world was oddly narrow and limited to only what they could see and hear with their physical eyes and ears.  But now he envied them.  If Mithrandir was right, what good was there in sensing what was to come?  They could not escape it in any case.  If they were doomed to stay in this black pit, what a relief it would be to close one’s eyes to the stone, to escape the Shadow for just a little while.  But that was not his right, and not his place in the Fellowship.  Let the others seek comfort in mortal sleep.  Legolas steeled himself to his duty, and willed his mind to remain clear, his senses sharp despite his exhaustion.

But as he watched, he became aware that not all his companions slept.  Gimli sat a short distance away, his arms folded and his head covered.  He was as still as the rock behind him, but the Dwarf’s customary snores were absent from the chorus of nocturnal breathing around them.

The Dwarf, at least, he might have expected to sleep.  Gimli was comfortable beneath the earth, and did not seem troubled by Shadow.  Yet the Dwarf was wakeful.  At any other time Legolas would not have thought much about Gimli’s habits, or indeed noticed him at all.  But he was sick of dwelling on Shadow and terror.  Try as he might, in all the long hours in the dark he had not sensed any physical threat.  Only the loss of Song, and the dead stone, and the Shadow.  There had been no change in all that night’s long march, and no relief save for the brief encounter with the Orcs the day before.  His mind seemed to chase itself in endless circles, Mithrandir’s words and Aragorn’s reassurances racing round in a senseless litany.  He was sick of it.  Sick of the fear, and the taste of iron, and the void of silence.  Any distraction was welcome, even were it only an insomniac Dwarf.

“Are the great halls of my people so dull, Elf, that you must stare at me?”

Legolas blinked.  Gimli’s voice was cold and bitter.  He still sat and stared ahead, his face obscured by his raised hood.  He had not moved or looked at Legolas, yet it was unquestionably his voice that had spoken.

“It is dark,” Legolas said.

Gimli snorted.  “Do not tell me that those Elf eyes fail you now.  Gandalf’s light still shines.”

Legolas glanced around.  In truth he could see quite a bit of the great hall as it stretched away before them.  The shadowed pillars marched into the depths, dark against the gloom.  “I see only what I have seen since we entered Moria.  Stone and shadows.  There is nothing worth looking at.”

Gimli turned to face him.  His hood fell back and his hands were clenched on his knees.  There was a murderous light in his eyes.  “Do not say that word!  This is no black pit, Elf, and your feet are not fit to tread its passages.  This is Khazad-dûm, and you will speak of it with respect!”

Legolas stared at the Dwarf in mild astonishment.  The hostility toward himself was expected, even welcomed as a small thread of normalcy in this disorienting place.  But beneath the anger in Gimli’s tone there was a far stronger current of grief.  Sorrow and memory deepened the Dwarf’s voice, and his breath was ragged.

Gimli was not behaving as Legolas expected.  First there had been the song, and now this tirade that seemed more of a sob.  For all his fascination with mortals, Legolas had never imagined such depth in a Dwarf.  Gimli piqued his curiosity.

“I mean no disrespect, Master Dwarf,” he said after a moment.  “But what can you see here?  All is in ruin.  Your city is gone.”

“You are wrong, Master Elf.”  The anger was more distant in Gimli’s voice, the grief stronger.  “Durin’s folk may be driven away, but the cities of the Khazad remain.  They will endure until the end of the world.”

Legolas studied the Dwarf.  This was a mood he had never thought to see, one he had not thought the Naugrim capable of.  Anger, yes, passion, yes, but not this deep well of memory and sorrow.

“Mortals fade and pass away,” he said softly, “but the stone remembers them.”

Gimli looked at him, his eyes wide with surprise.  “Yes,” he said.

“I had not considered this before,” Legolas mused.  “It is a great mystery to us, why Men and Dwarves must always break the earth to suit their cities.  They tear down the forest rather than live within it.  But they know that their time is brief, and with the passing of an Age they are forgotten.  So they must scar Ennor to leave their memory.”

Gimli frowned.  “You call this a scar on Ennor?  Think what you say, Elf.  Would you rather see only the damp holes that were here before?  Shallow pits and barren rock?  We have improved what Ennor gave us.  We have brought life to the waste, and created beauty.  The treasures of Khazad-dûm are legend!  Think of the great craftsmen here and the things they made!  Jewels like the sun, and mithril stars!”

Legolas looked at the vast columns around them and thought for a moment of the endless labor to create just one of them from a blank pit of stone.  The toil of hundreds of craftsmen, mortals who would never see the fruit of their labors, but who left them as a legacy for their children.  He could never love this place as Gimli did, and his soul still cried for the song of living things.  But this was also a hall of memory, and an Elf could appreciate that.

“You comfort me, Master Dwarf,” he said at last.  “I am honored to witness the memorial of the Dwarves.  But in truth I can find no beauty without life.  Great skill your ancestors had, but their gems are meaningless without them.”

Gimli’s eyes grew dark.  “Aye,” he said.  “Though it seems to me that your father found great value in our gems, and did not trouble about the living Dwarves that claimed them.”

Legolas’ eyes narrowed.  Must the Dwarf dwell on such trivial issues now?  “The king claimed no more than was his due after defending your people from the Orcs.  They would have ravaged your plunder were it not for us.  No paltry stones can repay the Elven lives lost that day.”

“The Dwarves had no need for rescue.  My father proved that when he escaped your dungeons.”

“Would you rather they had been kept in the flets of the trees?”  Legolas asked dryly.  “It would have been more secure, but we thought they would be more comfortable in the cellars.”

“Oh I do apologize,” Gimli said with deep sarcasm, “I suppose they should have understood your motives better.  Somehow they were distracted by the attempt to rob them.”

For an instant Legolas was cast back to that day with the utter clarity of Elven memory.  He had remained in Laketown to direct the building of shelters for the people left destitute by Smaug’s attack, and had only joined his father’s main force shortly before the battle began.  He heard again the screams of dying Elves, his people, his friends.  He smelled the acrid dust and thick stench of blood.  He felt the lust and hatred of the Orcs.  And then, in the bitter aftermath of grief, there had been the pride and greed of the Dwarves.  The Elves had died defending these mortal strangers, had sacrificed immortality to protect the free peoples and drive back the Enemy’s servants.  But the Dwarves cared only for gold.

“We stole nothing,” Legolas hissed.  Under normal circumstances he would not have allowed the Dwarf to bait him so.  He would have held himself with the dignity becoming a son of Thranduil, and perhaps tempered Gimli’s harsh words with understanding of the pain the Dwarf was in.  But at this moment he did not care.  He was beyond weary, beyond pain, beyond caring.  He was sick unto death of the Shadow and the weight of malice, and he would not be in this place at all were it not for the Dwarves.

“Ever have the Elves fought to save Middle-earth, even now when it is our Doom to leave it.  But the Dwarves care nothing for life or beauty, except in their rocks.  They leave the free peoples in hardship or betray them to the Enemy.  What of the sacking of Doriath?  What of the siege of Barad-dûr?  Where were the Dwarves when Elves and Men died together?  You reap the reward of our sacrifice, and yet betray us and scorn our loss!”

Gimli jumped up, his hands balled into fists.  He stood over the seated Elf, shaking with fury.  “And what of the treachery of the Elves?  It was not the Dwarves that betrayed Middle-earth.  We would not be here at all were it not for Celebrimbor’s idiocy!  Durin would not have fallen were it not for those accursed Rings.  Khazad-dúm would not have been lost!”

Legolas leaped fluidly to his feet.  “No one forced the Rings upon the Naugrim.  And it was not the Elves that drove you from Moria.  Your greed stirred that which hunts us now, and endangers Frodo’s quest.  This is your people’s legacy, greed and treachery that leave Middle-earth in darkness!  The orphans of Doriath know this.  The widows of Gorgoroth will remember the stunted ones that fought with Sauron.”

Gimli glared at him.  “Always the Elves must live in the past.  Those deeds were done an Age ago, and yet you lord it over us still.  Why does Aragorn dread his heritage?  Because Elrond holds the mistake of an ancestor forty generations dead over his head!” 

“Lord Elrond knows Aragorn’s destiny far better than do you, Dwarf.  Aragorn will claim his heritage in his own time.  He has already sacrificed beyond your ability to comprehend, and no Elf would belittle his pain as you claim.  It is the Dwarves that refuse to acknowledge their history.”

“Do not presume to tell us our role in Middle-earth.  And know this: those dead were dust three thousand years ago.  Do not think to blame us for the past!”

Legolas stepped forward dangerously.  “My brothers died in that battle!”

They stood for a long moment, breathing hard, as the hatred of ten thousand years flickered between them like heat lightening.

Then Legolas spoke, his voice hard and cold.  “Mortals think that time washes away the past, as though it never were.  But that is not true.  Elves need no stone to remember us – we endure.  The legends of your ancestors, Dwarf, are my father’s experiences.  And I will remember the Dwarves’ greed and treachery when your precious halls are dust.”

Gimli ground his teeth.  “And your arrogance will not be forgiven, Elf, so long as there are Dwarves to remember it.”

They glared at each other as the moments stretched away in silence.  Gimli longed to reach for his axe, to cut down the Elf’s pride.  He thought of his father’s long torment in the dungeons, so easily dismissed by this arrogant Elf-brat.  To think he had the gall to stand in Durin’s home and insult the generations of his descendants!  His fury burned in his throat, and his eyes stung and watered as he met the Elf’s gaze.  But Legolas had not reached for his knives, and Gimli would not draw first.

Then a strange look came into Legolas’ clear eyes, and the Elf frowned and turned his gaze away from Gimli’s.  Gimli sagged slightly, as though a physical weight had been lifted from him.  He would have claimed victory in the staring match, but Legolas seemed distracted, almost as if unaware of the Dwarf before him.  He was gazing over Gimli’s head at something behind the Dwarf, and a faint crease was drawn between his eyes.

Reluctantly Gimli turned to see what the Elf was looking at.  There seemed to be nothing unusual, just the dark humps of their sleeping companions and Boromir.  Then Gimli frowned.  There was something odd about the Man.  Now that he thought about it, it was strange that he and Legolas had not been interrupted in their argument.  Never before had they been permitted to voice all the long grievances and past hurts that lay between their peoples.  Never had they fought so long, with words that cut like knives.  On the occasions that they had exchanged heated words someone had always broken them apart.  Usually Aragorn, but sometimes Gandalf or Boromir.  Yet this time no one had intervened.  Gimli was glad for that, but it was strange.

He looked over the Fellowship.  Aragorn had stirred and kicked off his blanket, but had not waked.  Gimli wondered at this.  The Ranger was a light sleeper and he and Legolas had not troubled to keep their voices down.  But Aragorn was clearly exhausted.  He seemed nearly as uneasy as Legolas in the caves, and this took its toll on his mortal body.  Gandalf also slept, as was to be expected after keeping watch all through the night before.  But Boromir was awake, and he had not shown much patience for their bickering in the past.  He should have interrupted them.  Yet the Man only sat, his eyes blank, turning the Horn of Gondor slowly in his hands.

Gimli narrowed his eyes.  Something was definitely wrong.  Aragorn seemed to have settled, Gandalf had not moved, the Hobbit pile was oblivious, though Frodo seemed to be stirring in his sleep. . . Frodo.  Boromir was staring at Frodo.

Legolas spoke behind him, his musical voice low and intense.  “How much time has passed?”

Gimli started, and then said without looking at the Elf, “An hour and a half, perhaps two.”

“Long enough.”  Legolas slipped by him and was nearly to Boromir before Gimli registered the cool wind of his passing.  The Elf stopped at the Man’s side and said sharply, “Boromir.”  There was no response.  “Boromir!”  Legolas bent down and shook the Man’s shoulder.

Boromir started and looked around.  “Legolas?  You should be asleep.”

“It is well that I am not,” the Elf said shortly.  “You are clearly fatigued, and your watch is over.”

“Is it?” the Man smiled ruefully.  “I am sorry, Legolas.  I must have drifted off for a moment.  I was more tired than I realized.”  Boromir got up and picked his way over to the Hobbits.  Legolas watched through narrowed eyes as the Man woke Frodo and then retired to his own bedroll.  He wrapped the cloak around himself and lay down to face the wall without another glance at the Elf.

Frodo was looking between Legolas and Gimli with a puzzled frown.  Legolas spoke softly to the Hobbit and then came back to his own blanket.  He did not sit down, but stood against the wall and stared over at the shadowed lump that was Boromir.  The Elf’s eyes were dark with suspicion.

“He was watching the Ring-bearer,” Gimli said softly.

“Yes,” Legolas’ voice was distant and cool as wind off the mountains.  “It seems that Durin’s Bane is not the only one to hear the call of the Ring.”

*~*~*

A/N:  My assertions about Legolas’ age, possible siblings, and role in the Battle of the Five Armies are entirely my own and have no basis in canon, although there are some wonderfully well written arguments to support the theory that he is “young” for an Elf, perhaps around 500 years old.  We do know that his grandfather Oropher was killed in the Last Alliance and his father Thranduil led the surviving third of Greenwood’s forces home, but not much else.

The Dwarves’ role in attacking the Elven kingdom of Doriath is related in the Silmarillion.  Tolkien says that all creatures, including birds and beasts, were divided in the last war with Sauron.  Elves were the one exception to this, for they fought only against him.  So I interpret this to mean that some Dwarves fought on Sauron’s side, just as some Men did.  Durin’s kin, however, (Gimli’s direct ancestors) fought against him.  But for the most part the Dwarves were not involved with the Last Alliance, on either side.

Coming Soon:  Chapter 7, dead Dwarves and a glimpse of light.

A/N:  Large sections of dialogue were lifted from Journey in the Dark, The Fellowship of the Ring, pages 358 and 362 of the movie-covered Ballantine Books edition.

Disclaimer:  Everything here belongs to the Tolkien estate – his characters, his places, his world.  I’m just giving him some good exercise turning in his grave.

Chapter 7:  To Breathe

Silence fell over the great hall.  Boromir did not stir, and Gimli soon tired of looking at his shapeless form.  He was weary from their long march, and though he could have sat up longer there was no point in taxing themselves without reason.

The Elf was of course immune to logic, and looked set to stay up all night.  He stood clear and bright in the gloom and watched the dark, but every now and again shot a sharp glance in Boromir’s direction.

But Legolas gave no further voice to his suspicions and showed no sign that he was even aware of the Dwarf’s presence.  For his part Gimli had not forgotten the harsh words they had exchanged, or the cutting tone of the Elf’s voice as he had disparaged Gimli’s kin.  The Elf would pay dearly for his slander, Gimli promised himself.  But now, in the dark ruin of Khazad-dûm, with the Ring a growing threat, was not the time.  Later, Gimli swore.  Later there would be time for vengeance.

So he turned his back to Legolas and with single-minded determination shut away the nagging fears that twisted in the back of his mind.  He pillowed his head on his pack and shifted so that he was pressed against the wall’s solid rock.  Whatever may come, whatever threat they faced from the Enemy, this good stone would endure.  Gimli took comfort in this thought, and never mind that the Elf had expressed it first.  He shut his eyes and soon fell into sleep.

*~*~*

Legolas listened as the Dwarf’s breathing slowed and deepened into his customary snores.  Evidently the stunted creature was not going to continue their dispute at the moment.  Legolas was grateful for this, and thanked whatever small wit Aulë had seen fit to bestow upon the Naugrim that Gimli was capable of discretion.

In truth Legolas himself would have dearly loved to finish their discussion.  The Dwarf had slandered his father, his people, and his heritage.  For the first time all their long history of grievances had been laid bare and Legolas was determined that the Dwarf should know his people’s true role.  Moreover, although Gimli had proven himself a powerful warrior in combat, no Dwarf could match an Elf in a battle of words.  Like all Elves Legolas loved games of word play and could debate for days without tiring.  But Gimli had shown signs of fatigue and impatience after what was, for an Elf, only the preliminary stages of discussion.  It would not take long to defeat him entirely.  But as pleasurable as that prospect was, it would have to wait.  More important matters were at hand.

In the deeps of night the Shadow weighed heavily.  And while most of the Company slept Legolas felt again the silent malice that pressed upon them.  But perhaps the greatest threat was something far closer to them.

Legolas glanced briefly at Frodo and then again at the shadowed outline of Boromir.  The Man had not stirred since he lay down, but Legolas doubted that he slept.  What dark voice had claimed his attention so completely that night?  How was it that he had been oblivious to Legolas and Gimli’s argument?  Legolas did not know Boromir very well, for all their travel together.  The Man tended to hold himself apart from the rest of the Company, and his clear discomfort around Elves had not helped matters.  But he had proven himself a strong and noble Man, and showed true concern for the Hobbits.  He and Aragorn had likely saved their lives on Caradhras.  Prior to this night Legolas would not have believed it possible that he could so neglect his duty while on watch.

And what of my own duty?  A small voice whispered in the back of his mind.  What might Boromir have succumbed to, while I focused on the Dwarf?  Legolas shuddered.  He had sworn to protect the Ring-bearer.  He was tasked with representing all Elves for the Fellowship.  And yet he had abandoned his responsibility for the sake of a petty squabble with a Dwarf.  His stomach twisted with shame.

A faint sound came to him then, a slight shift of movement soft as the sundering of a leaf from a bough.  Legolas turned his head sharply to stare out into the dark hall, and caught the glint of luminous eyes gazing back at him.

He froze, holding that strange gaze for a long moment.  His breath stopped, and for an eternity stretched between one beat of his heart and the next, he looked into those shining eyes.  Then there was a faint scrabble of bare feet on rock, and they were gone. 

Legolas let out his breath slowly.  He had known Gollum briefly during his stay in Mirkwood.  The twisted creature was foul with hate and malice, and Aragorn had warned that he could not be trusted.  But Legolas thought that there was something more to him.  He was all but consumed by greed, and seemed to breathe treachery and deceit.  And yet . . . and yet there was sorrow in him, and at times he would sit quiet and whisper, not of his foul Precious, but of something deeper.  There was a longing in him more pure than his usual lust.  He wished, perhaps, for the simple pleasure of a sun that was not an unfriendly eye, and a love that was not for power.  His soul was not yet completely discordant with Ilúvatar’s Song.  Legolas sensed this, and it was perhaps this that led the Mirkwood Elves to over kindness.  He was not yet beyond redemption.  Not yet.

A sharp catch of breath behind him made Legolas turn.  Frodo was on his feet, staring into the dark, his eyes glinting huge in his white face.  Legolas blinked in surprise.  He had not thought a Hobbit’s eyes sharp enough to see much in the absolute dark, and indeed Sam had earlier bemoaned the lack of lamps and torches.  But Frodo had clearly seen Gollum, and the Ring-bearer’s breath sounded loud and harsh in the silence.

Legolas frowned slightly.  Was this night-sightedness normal for a Hobbit?  He wished he knew more about them.  Perhaps he could ask Mithrandir, or Aragorn . . . Aragorn.  The Ranger still slept.  This Man, who never slept more than five consecutive hours even in Imladris, slumbered on heedless of the noise of his companions, the threat of Orcs, or the weight of Shadow.  Legolas fixed the lump of Aragorn’s sleeping roll with a sharp stare.  On previous journeys he had found that just the intensity of an Elven gaze was enough to rouse the Man.  But now there was nothing.  Aragorn did not so much as twitch, and a warning prickle tensed the back of Legolas’ neck.

If I called him, if I shook him by the shoulder . . . Legolas drew a slow breath.  He could feel the expanding of his lungs, the weight of his quiver strap as it cut across his chest.  He could hear the Man’s steady breathing, louder than the Hobbits’, slightly raspier than Boromir’s.  He is all right.  He is only tired from the journey.  He would waken.  Unspoken, unbidden, was the fear in the back of his mind . . . if It allowed him.

Legolas looked away from Aragorn at last.  He scanned the dark hall briefly and glanced again at Boromir.  The Man had not moved, but he did not sleep.  Legolas thought that he was listening.

All during this endless journey in the mines Legolas had been focused on the Shadow around them.  That threat had not abated, and he could feel it still, burning cold and hateful on his skin, and drawing ever nearer.  But he had not thought about that which drew it to them.

This strange sleep of Aragorn’s, Boromir’s fixation, Frodo’s keen vision and the lines drawn on his white face, even Legolas’ own fears and his argument with Gimli . . . was this all some manipulation of the Ring’s?  He rather thought that Gimli’s irascibility was entirely natural to the Dwarf, but Legolas himself should not have been drawn so easily.  What purpose could stirring up the old hatreds serve?  Was this too a contrivance of the Enemy’s?

Legolas looked again into the dark that waited, scarcely checked by Mithrandir’s faint light.  The weight of stone, the dead air, the loss of Ilúvatar’s Song, the Shadow, and now the Ring . . . how could he know which of his senses were real, and which were illusory?  What was a true threat, and what was only his own overwrought mind, and what was a trick of the Enemy’s?  Perhaps Mithrandir was right to go on.  Perhaps the weight of Shadow was an illusion, and Durin’s Bane no more than Orcs.  Legolas gripped his bow so tightly that the smooth wood cut into his palms.  He was losing control, and the thought sent a hot trickle of panic through his gut.  Aragorn had said to trust the strengths of mortals in this pit.  But how could he trust the others when he could not even trust his own mind?

A strange thought came to him then, and he turned his head slowly to look at the hump of blankets from which Gimli’s snores issued.  The Dwarf was undisturbed by dark or stone or Shadow, and he at least seemed unaffected by the Ring.  He was strangely blind to the song of living things, it seemed – more so even than Men.  But he was also solid, and firmly grounded in the world of the physical senses.  Perhaps . . . perhaps with him Legolas might find some balance, at least while he was cut off from the Song.

Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head briefly.  If all the fate of Middle-earth depends on a Hobbit, shall the sanity of an Elf depend on a Dwarf?  He opened his eyes again and turned resolutely away from Gimli.  The others would waken soon, and perhaps he would have a moment to tell Aragorn and Mithrandir of the happenings this night.  He would not be driven so low as to seek aid from a Dwarf.

But now there were more important things to attend to.  Frodo still stood apart from the company, his small shoulders tensed and his face drawn with strain.  His right hand gripped the hilt of Sting at his side, but his left had strayed up to clutch something at his chest.  Legolas pushed down his own wealth of fears and doubts and forced his mind to clear.  Frodo was in danger.  Whatever small strength remained to him in this pit belonged by rights to the Ring-bearer.  Perhaps he was doomed to failure; perhaps it was folly to offer an Elf’s assistance in a Dwarf’s realm.  But he must at least try.

He deliberately dislodged a bit of rubble as he walked over to the Hobbit, but Frodo showed no reaction to his presence.  He started badly when Legolas touched his shoulder, and wheeled around with Sting half drawn from its scabbard.  Legolas moved with Elven reflexes to catch Frodo’s wrist before he could finish the draw.  “Peace, Master Hobbit,” he said softly.  Frodo seemed to stare straight through him for a moment, then he blinked and his eyes came into focus.

“Legolas?”  The Hobbit gave a wan smile and relaxed slightly.  Legolas released his wrist and Frodo dropped Sting back into its holder with a soft snick.  He drew his left hand away from his chest and flexed the fingers absently.  “Is it time for your watch already?”

Legolas ignored the question.  He had absolutely no idea how much time had passed.  He simply did not feel the passage of hours as mortals did.  In the open he was so attuned to the motions of the stars that he could wake from a sound sleep when their positions told him that his watch had come, but he had quickly lost all sense of time and direction in the mines.  He had very deliberately volunteered for the last watch this night so that he would not have to determine when to wake the next watchman, and so that Aragorn would not be able to fault him for being awake when the Man arose.

“You seem troubled,” he said instead.  “I thought you might wish company.”  He took a few steps back so that the Hobbit would not have to crane his neck up to look at him.

Frodo glanced out at the blank darkness of the hall and then back at Legolas.  “I thought I saw something,” he said, “but it is gone now.”  The Hobbit looked again at the dark and drew his cloak more tightly about himself, but Legolas thought that it was not cold that made him shiver.

Legolas hesitated.  He did not wish to alarm the Hobbit unnecessarily, but he also did not know how much Frodo sensed, and what the Ring-bearer might already know.  “There is danger here,” he said finally.  “But the Fellowship will not fail.  Gandalf will not lead us astray.”

“No,” Frodo said absently.  “I suppose not.”  He stood gazing out at the dark for a moment more, then shook himself and turned to face the Elf.  “Are you all right?”

Legolas blinked in surprise, and Frodo smiled slightly at his reaction.  “You seem very tense.”  Legolas opened his mouth, but Frodo shook his head quickly.  “I don’t mean just with Pippin and the well earlier.  Pip was being foolish, and he’s fine now.  But you’re, well,” he lifted one hand in an uncertain gesture, “you haven’t been yourself.  It must be terrible for you, being trapped underground.”

Legolas laughed softly.  The Hobbit’s summation seemed so simple.  But his clear laughter ran away into the depths and echoed back twisted and distorted from the shadows.  Legolas sobered quickly.  “It is not an experience I care to repeat, Master Frodo,” he said.  “But I will survive.  You need not concern yourself for my sake.  You have far more important cares upon you.”

Frodo looked at him thoughtfully.  “Maybe.  But I don’t believe that there’s much that’s more important than helping a friend in trouble.”

Legolas looked hard at the Hobbit then, in his surprise forgetting to lessen the normal intensity of his gaze.  But Frodo met his eyes unflinchingly.  There was something about this Hobbit, some sense of an intrinsic spirit far greater than his slight frame would suggest.  Even in the Black Pit, with his normal senses limited, Legolas could feel it.  Almost he could see it, shining in the Hobbit’s eyes.  Then Frodo flushed and glanced away, and Legolas remembered himself.

“Elvellon,” he breathed, lessening his gaze but not looking away from Frodo’s face.  “I see now why Gildor named you Elf-friend.  You speak wisely, Frodo.”  He raised his right hand to his heart and bowed formally.  “It is my honor to serve you.  Whatever threat we face, I will protect you.”

Frodo looked slightly uncomfortable.  “Thank you, Legolas.  Everyone has already risked so much on this Quest – I couldn’t ask more.  But these mines seem especially hard on you.  So please tell me, as a friend, are you all right?”

Legolas smiled slightly.  “No, elvellon.  I am not myself at the moment.  But we will escape this place soon, and I will be fine.  Please do not concern yourself about me.  Aragorn does quite a good enough job playing nursemaid on his own.”

Frodo smiled back, but when he spoke his voice was serious.  He reiterated Legolas’ words, as if offering reassurance, or seeking it.  “We will get out.”

Legolas repressed a shudder as the Shadow curled against the back of his neck.  He forced his voice to remain steady, and hoped that he seemed confident.  “Yes.  We will.”

Frodo nodded.  “Then I suppose I ought to let you take the watch now, and I won’t tell Aragorn that you were up all night.”  He cast another brief glance at the surrounding darkness and then carefully picked his way past Mithrandir and Pippin to where his bedroll lay between Sam and Merry.

“Sleep well,” Legolas murmured.  He watched as Frodo wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down.  One day, he thought, he would like to visit the Shire and hear what song the forests sang in a land of such remarkable people.  It seemed that Men were not the only mortals whose friendship was of value.

*~*~*

The rest of the night passed quietly.  The hall lay in thick silence, broken only by the soft breathing of the Fellowship.  Even Boromir had finally fallen asleep.  Legolas sat on a low pile of rubble against the wall and stared out into the dark.  But there was no sound, no hint of movement.  Gollum appeared to have gone, or more likely, to be sleeping as well.

Legolas absently ran one hand slowly along his bow, stroking the grain with the tips of his fingers.  The Shadow seemed to have lessened slightly, but his own sense of dread was like a leaden weight in his stomach.  And yet what was there to dread?  Durin’s Bane?  All they had encountered thus far in the journey was Orcs.  He did not fear them. 

He thought of the straight path that they had avoided earlier that night.  He had been so certain, so confident that evil lurked there.  He remembered the coiling brush of Shadow, the whisper of hate against his skin.  But had it been real?  Or was it only another deceit?  Perhaps the Ring had twisted his mind, and led him to draw the Company astray.  Advice is a dangerous gift, even from the wise to the wise.  But there was no comfort in the old sayings now.  He had accepted his duty to the Fellowship, and he could not escape it.  Perhaps it was folly, but they needed his senses, and he must advise them as best he could, even in the mines.  And Mithrandir sensed the Shadow too, and Aragorn.  It is real.  It must be.  And if it was not, if their path was twisted by the Ring, he could not help that. 

Besides, there was no evidence that the Ring had corrupted him, either.  He did not long for it.  It was foul with evil that could not be concealed, for Sauron had no gift for beauty any longer.  Legolas was not of the Noldor, and had never sought power or wealth.  The Ring did not tempt him.  Can you be certain? The small voice whispered in his mind.  Did you not serve Its purpose when you fought with the Dwarf?

Perhaps he had.  But that failing was his own, born of weariness and pain, and the insufferable Dwarf.  I cannot go on like this.  I must trust that my thoughts are my own, and my senses are true.  I will not be drawn; I will not be manipulated, not by Durin’s son or Durin’s Bane, or Isildur’s.  And if he was wrong, if his thoughts were false, he must trust that the mortals would prove stronger than he.  Aragorn was right: they had strength here that he lacked.  Frodo had proved that, as had Gimli.

His mind seemed clearer now, the plaguing doubts dissipated.  Something teased the edges of his awareness.  There was a faint stirring of the dead air in the hall.  He had no idea how much time had passed, but he must trust that the others would rise on their own.  Mithrandir, at least, would surely rouse soon.  Legolas idly traced the geometric patter of a pillar with his eyes.  All was still.  He marveled that the Dwarves had taken so much time, so much skill, to create a pattern that was so dull.  Why diagonals and squares?  They might have made pillars like tree boles, branches lacing the ceiling, carved birds and animals . . . similar things had been done in Rivendell, and in the deepest parts of Mirkwood’s fortress.  It was an illusion, of course, and a mere mockery of life, but it would have been some small comfort to the Wood-elf.  He raised his gaze to the distant ceiling, following the curve of the great archways. 

The ceiling.  He could see the ceiling.  Legolas looked around sharply.  The gloom was still thick, the looming pillars still blurred and indistinct in the depths, but he could see the nearer ones clearly.  He could see their carvings, gray and shadowed, but there nonetheless.  He looked up, scanning the upper part of the hall . . . there!  There near the roof, a slight lessening of the absolute dark, a faint hint of light . . . Legolas leaped to his feet.  He was running, racing through the dark, his feet silent on the smooth stone.  He reached the far wall and pressed his hands against it.  The wall was smooth as glass and at least fifty feet high.  He looked around frantically, but there was no break or ledge anywhere, no rubble for leverage, no hint of hand or foothold for even an Elf.  He backed away from the wall, just far enough to see the small square of growing light so high above him. He closed his eyes and listened for a long moment.  And there it was.  So faint, soft as the brush of snow on skin, but real.

The whisper of a breeze, the stir of free air and on that breath came the taste of green, the smell of growing things, the murmur of life.  Legolas spread his arms wide and tilted his head back.  His long hair spilled over his quiver and the sensitive skin of his face and throat was laid bare to the whispered kiss of dawn.  His lips parted slightly as he drank in Ilúvatar’s Song.

*~*~*

Gimli awoke with a headache.  He had slept with his head propped against his pack, and the angle had given him a crick in his neck.  He twisted his head slightly from side to side, trying to work the cramp from his shoulders, but his chain mail hampered his movements, and the dull throbbing only got worse.

His bad mood was lessened slightly by the sight of light streaming in from shafts cut high in the far wall of the great hall.  It was faint and pale, but seemed painfully bright to Gimli’s eyes.  The rest of the Company was waking, and speaking in soft voices – still mindful of spies, but delighting in the light.  Remembering the events of the previous night Gimli shot a sharp look in Boromir’s direction.  The Man was sitting a little apart from the others, his eyes downcast.  In Gimli’s current mood it seemed as if he were very deliberately not looking in Frodo’s direction.  The Hobbit slept still, as did Pippin.  But a gleam of light had fallen across Frodo’s face, and he was beginning to stir slightly.

Gimli looked around.  The light was welcome, and yet in some way it seemed to emphasize the dark of places it did not reach.  This whole hall should be full of light and life.  The great walls should reflect the glow of a thousand torches, not this pallid gleam that left most of the hall in shadow.  Gimli shifted his shoulders irritably as he bent to pack up his bedroll.

Straightening up again sent a bolt of bright pain through his spine, and he gritted his teeth.  Perhaps he should ask Aragorn for something to ease it.  If he could get the Man alone for a moment . . . Gimli looked around.  He caught sight of the Ranger soon enough, but all hope of speaking to him privately vanished.

Aragorn was standing about ten feet away, his back to Gimli.  He was looking up at a narrow pillar of a side passage that had crumbled into disrepair.  Perched perhaps twenty feet up the pillar was Legolas.  The Elf had evidently climbed the chipped masonry to the top of the small archway and clung there, his hands and feet braced on some slight imperfection in the stone, his body leaning back and his eyes fixed on the shaft from which the light came. 

Aragorn seemed half amused, half exasperated as he called up to the Elf.  “Legolas, come down.  The Company breakfasts down here.”

Legolas twisted almost upside down to look at the Man.  “I can smell the green from here, Aragorn!  It is better than food or sleep.”

Aragorn snorted.  “First you wouldn’t eat because of the dark.  Now you won’t eat because of the light.”

Legolas laughed, clear and bright as bells ringing.  “You can toss the food up here.  Or,” his bright gaze fell on Gimli, “send it with the Dwarf.  He is good at climbing stone.”

Gimli glowered at him, but the Elf only laughed again.  Aragorn sighed.  “The longer you stay up there, the longer it will take for us to leave Moria.”

Legolas let go of the pillar.  Aragorn started in shock, but the Elf somersaulted smoothly in mid air and landed lightly beside him.  Gimli wondered how he kept his arrows from falling out of his quiver. 

“We can go now,” Legolas said simply.  He took the dried fruit that Aragorn held and laughed again.  Then he caught up his bow and leaped away, racing across the hall to come to a complete stop at the eastern archway, his head thrown back and his eyes half closed as he looked up at the shaft of light.

Aragorn turned and gave Gimli a sympathetic look.  He walked over to the Dwarf, one corner of his mouth drawn up in wry amusement.  “That, Master Dwarf, is a typical Wood-elven reaction.  We’ve been in these caves too long, and the light is very welcome.”

Gimli snorted.  “We’ve been here less than three days.  That hardly excuses his madness.”

Aragorn smiled, but his eyes were dark.  “He has been under more strain than you know, Gimli, and he is stronger than you think.”  The Ranger’s gaze shifted to where Gandalf stood leaning on his staff, looking at the various archways and muttering under his breath.  “I have felt a darkness here, and my heart bids me take caution.  Legolas is not gifted with foresight, but he senses much.  You would do well to pay heed to his words.”

Before Gimli could reply to that Aragorn’s face lightened and he smiled at something behind Gimli.  “Frodo is awake.  I suggest you get some breakfast, Master Dwarf.  We’ll be leaving soon.”

Gimli turned to see that the Hobbit had indeed sat up and was looking around blearily.  He scowled.  Aragorn had apparently looked over his head to see Frodo.  Normally this would not have bothered Gimli, but this morning he was in a mood to take issue with everything.  The ridiculously disproportioned Man was flaunting his height; the Elf was using his ancestral halls as a climbing structure –

At that moment Gandalf’s unusually cheerful voice cut over the other quiet conversations.  “Good morning,” he called, evidently speaking to Frodo.  Pippin sat up as well, saw Merry with the breakfast supplies, and scrambled over to claim his share.  Gandalf continued smoothly.  “For morning it is at last.  I was right, you see.  We are high up on the east side of Moria.  Before today is over we ought to find the Great Gates and see the waters of Mirrormere lying in the Dimrill Dale before us.”

“I shall be glad,” Gimli growled.  The Company was being entirely too cheerful for the early morning, and a little glimmer of light did not merit this casual disregard of his people’s lost home.  It was time they were reminded of that.  “I have looked on Moria, and it is very great, but it has become dark and dreadful; and we have found no sign of my kindred.”  His voice softened as a lump formed in his throat, and his last words were a whisper.  “I doubt now that Balin ever came here.”

The others were looking at him sympathetically, and even Pippin sobered and put down his food for a moment.  There was a silence, and then Gandalf cleared his throat.  “We are tired,” he said with a close look at Gimli, “but we shall rest better when we are outside.  I think that none of us will wish to spend another night in Moria.”

“No indeed!” said Boromir.  Gimli looked at him sharply.  Alone of the Company the Man seemed to have retained his senses, and indeed seemed more dour now than ever.  There were shadows under his eyes, and his face seemed to be newly lined in the dim light.  He met Gimli’s gaze briefly, then looked away.  “Which way shall we take?  Yonder eastward arch?”  He gestured toward the far wall, and Gimli caught a flash of relief in his eyes as the others turned to look at the passage.

“Maybe,” Gandalf said slowly.  “But I do not know yet exactly where we are.  Unless I am quite astray, I guess that we are above and to the north of the Great Gates; and it may not be easy to find the right road down to them.  The eastern arch will probably prove to be the way that we must take; but before we make up our minds we ought to look about us.  Let us go towards that light in the north door.  If we could find a window it would help, but I fear that the light comes only down deep shafts.”

“The light comes where it may, but the sun travels swiftly.”  A sickeningly cheerful voice made Gimli’s head throb anew.  The Elf had joined them.  “She will leave the eastern wall soon, and the Company must follow her.  And if we cannot find a window, perhaps our Dwarf might make us one.”

Gimli glared at the Elf.  Legolas returned his stare easily, his arms folded casually across his chest.  At least he was not yet singing, but that was probably only a matter of time. 

“Then we will explore the northern arch first,” Gandalf said in a voice of strained amusement.

The Fellowship ranged along behind him as he led the way under the great arch and along a wide corridor.  Legolas ran ahead and then darted back to walk at Aragorn’s side.  The Elf seemed unable to keep still.  Gimli wondered how difficult it would be to trip him with the shaft of his axe.

But as they walked the Company became more sober.  The glimmer of light grew stronger, but a pall seemed to fall over their spirits.  Aragorn seemed wary, and walked with Andúril unsheathed in his hand.  Even Legolas quieted and slowed his steps.  He unslung his bow and fell to the back of the Fellowship, his posture radiating a tense alertness.

Gimli ignored the Elf.  These radical mood swings were apparently normal for him, or so Gimli judged from Aragorn’s calm reaction earlier.  The Man seemed to take Legolas’ behavior in stride, though the Elves of Rivendell had seemed different from those of Mirkwood.  Gimli could not imagine Elrond somersaulting from a pillar.  But then Elves in general were unpredictable and contradictory creatures.  No doubt Aragorn had learned to put up with them during his childhood in Rivendell. 

Indeed the Ranger seemed to have absorbed some of their characteristics.  Gimli trusted Aragorn as he trusted few people, but at times the Man seemed disturbingly Elvish.  This business about feeling a darkness in Moria, and his earlier insistence that Gandalf, in particular, would be in danger there . . . what had that meant?  Unbidden, he remembered the weight of sorrow and fear that had taken him when he stood with Legolas at the crossroads after their fight with the Orcs.  Was that what Aragorn meant?  Had the Elf felt that strange terror all these days?  No wonder he had not slept.

Gimli tried to push away these thoughts and focus on the task at hand.  Legolas seemed to have regained his senses, but that did not mean he could be relied upon.  Boromir had been acting strangely, and Gimli was wary of him.  And Aragorn was apparently troubled by the caves as well.  Someone had to keep a level head during the rest of their journey.  And there was none better for that than a Dwarf.  Gimli only wished that his own head did not ache quite so much.  It seemed to have eased slightly, but a strange sense of dread weighed upon him.

Eventually they came to a wide stone door, half open upon its hinges, through which the light gleamed.  Gimli swallowed hard.  The great halls of Khazad-dûm used these light shafts, he remembered, to illuminate important artifacts, or chambers of state.  He pushed ahead of Gandalf and through the door.

The light dazzled his eyes, and for a moment swirling black dots obscured his vision.  He blinked furiously.  The floor was thick with dust, and he stumbled over loose rubble and shapes that he could not make out.  The Fellowship’s feet stirred up an acrid swirl of dust motes that floated in the shaft of light. 

That light fell on an oblong block about two feet high in the middle of the room, upon which was laid a long slab of white stone.  Runes were written upon the stone, in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves and the common language of men, and their message drove Gimli to his knees as a paroxysm of shock and grief overwhelmed him.

Balin.  Balin was dead.  Balin his father’s cousin, his friend.  Balin with his long white beard and that red hood that he was so fond of, Balin who was never too tired or too busy to tell tales to his young cousin.  It had been Balin who first described to him the great battle with the dragon Smaug, and the Elf-king’s palace, and the Orcs’ tunnels.  Balin had never given up hope, never.  He had lobbied for their return to Khazad-dûm at every gathering of the Dwarves in exile, and he had fought Dain to a standstill and won the right to lead his colony back to Moria.  Balin had been their last hope, their last defiant stand in the face of the Enemy.  And he was gone.

Gimli bowed his head.  The others were speaking, meaningless words that washed over him unheeded.  There was a roaring in his ears and a small voice that chanted nonsensically in the back of his mind, lost.  Lost, all is lost.  You knew he was gone, you knew.  All is lost.  He whispered the ancient words pleading that Mahal take back what was his, uncaring if others heard the guarded tongue.  What did it matter any more?  What did any of it matter?  Balin was gone.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he came slowly back to himself.  Boromir was standing next to him.  There was a look of sympathy in the Man’s eyes, and Gimli found himself strangely grateful for that.  He had not thought that any besides a Dwarf could understand their struggle and their loss, but perhaps he had been wrong.

Gandalf was speaking now, reading from the remains of a great book.  Gimli rose slowly and joined him.  He felt strangely detached, as if moving in a dream.  But the record was real, and his kin’s history demanded witness.  Gandalf was reading Ori’s flowing hand now, and the wizard’s voice was deep with shared pain.

“We cannot get out.  We cannot get out.  They have taken the Bridge and the second hall . . . The Watcher in the Water took Oin.  We cannot get out.  The end comes, and then drums, drums in the deep.  I wonder what that means.  The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: they are coming.  There is nothing more.”

“We cannot get out,” Gimli whispered.  He took the book from Gandalf and looked at the hastily scratched words.  A deep horror seemed to freeze within him, and he felt as though the very stone about them should ache with the memory of those last desperate moments.

Then Legolas gave a sharp cry.  The Elf had been standing near the door with Aragorn, but now he strung an arrow and sprang back, drawing and aiming through the door.  There was a great rolling boom that echoed up from the depths and shook the stone at Gimli’s feet, and for a moment he felt a strangely detached sort of surprise.  Stone was not supposed to move.  Then more great drumbeats sounded, tolling doom, doom through the labyrinth.  A horn sounded, and another, and there was the harsh scrabble of many feet.

“They are coming!” Legolas cried.

“We cannot get out,” Gimli said again, and the drums tolled in the deep.

*~*~*

A/N:  Lamiel’s first cliffhanger!  Although I suppose it doesn’t really count, since you all know what happens.  Coming soon:  Chapter 8, the Fellowship is saved when a mysterious girl from modern day Earth joins them and captures Legolas’ heart.  Or not.

A/N: This chapter incorporates more movie verse than any previous part of this story. I’ve attempted to bring in the more extended action sequence of the movie while still paying tribute to Tolkien’s work. To this end I have incorporated large portions of dialogue, pages 363-369 of The Fellowship of the Ring, the Bridge of Khazad-dûm the movie covered Ballantine books edition. The result is probably completely alternate to both universes. And yes, in my world the Balrog has wings.

As always, this work is tremendously improved by the long laboring patience of my beta reader, Angel, and the encouragement of all you wonderful reviewers.

Chapter 8: Shadow and Flame

“Slam the doors and wedge them!” shouted Aragorn.

“No!” said Gandalf. “We cannot be locked in. Keep the east door ajar and keep your packs on. We may yet escape.”

Escape? Gimli could not believe the wizard was serious. Even if they could get out the eastern door, what then? Were they to be driven like cattle with the Enemy’s dogs at their heels?

Swiftly the Dwarf unslung his pack and stowed the Book of Mazarbul within it. He would die before he allowed the Enemy to further defile the memory of the Khazad.

Gandalf went to the door and cried challenge to the Orcs, but he was met with only harsh laughter like the sliding of stones on slate. Boromir at his side leaped back as several black arrows whined past his head and struck the stone door. “They have a cave troll,” he said, and Gimli could have laughed at the utter lack of surprise in his voice. Of course they had a cave troll. Why not? It seemed that all the fates were aligned against the Fellowship, and at this point Gimli would not have been surprised if the Orcs had produced a dragon.

The drumbeats were louder and faster now. They rolled up through Gimli’s boots and resonated in his bones. A horn cried again, and another, like screams in the deep. Gimli swung his pack on again and loosened the throwing axes in his belt.

Boromir and Legolas were wedging the great stone door closed with the abandoned weapon shards that littered the chamber floor. Aragorn threw an axe to Legolas from his position by the east door. “There is no sound outside here yet,” he said, peering cautiously through the arch. “The passage on this side plunges straight down a stair: it plainly does not lead back toward the hall. But it is no good flying blindly this way with the pursuit just behind. We cannot block the door. Its key is gone and the lock is broken, and it opens inwards. We must do something to delay the enemy first.” His voice deepened with a note of grim certainty. “We will make them fear the Chamber of Mazarbul!”

Gimli shot him a swift glance, and his chest swelled when he saw the light of battle in Aragorn’s eyes. He knew now why Elves and Men followed this Ranger. Here at least was a man worthy to defend Khazad-dûm.

The door was now wedged shut as best as they could manage and the others drew back as it shook beneath the Orcs’ blows. Gandalf herded the Hobbits behind him and drew Glamdring with a ring of steel. The great blade glowed in the dim light.

Gimli braced his back against Balin’s tomb and lifted his great axe in both hands. The smooth wood was solid and warm, the leather binding supple beneath his fingers, the weight a reassuring resistance against his tensed muscles. There was a final ringing cry of horns outside, and then the drums stopped. For an endless beat of time they stood, waiting in the silent keep. Gimli held his breath as his heart beat a bitter tattoo against his ribs. Then there came a slow creak as the door was forced back.

Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir were ranged in front of Gimli. Boromir shifted his weight as though seeking balance, his great shield held before him and his broadsword easy in his hand. Aragorn had drawn his small bow and trained it on the slowly widening crack of the door. He shifted from side to side, seeking a clear target. Legolas stood absolutely still, his bow drawn and locked. He seemed utterly relaxed, his weapon held as if it were an extension of his body. There was no trace of the tense, increasingly paranoid creature Gimli had observed these past two days in the mines; or of the flighty Elf that had climbed the pillars of the Dwarrowdelf. Gimli had a sudden flash of memory: the light in Legolas’ eyes as he had fought in the lower hall. It was one of the endless contradictions of the race, Gimli supposed, that such an ethereal seeming creature could be so focused and so deadly in battle.

The door ground open a further few inches. Gimli wished that Boromir had not done quite such a good job wedging it closed. Durin’s beard, this was taking forever! There was a clatter of metal as the Hobbits drew their small blades. Boromir swung his sword in a circle, seeming as impatient as Gimli felt. Aragorn shifted his stance again. Legolas did not move.

Then the last splintered shards of wood gave way and the stone door was thrust back. A massive scaly arm was pushed through the opening, and a huge flat foot wedged in the crack. Boromir leaped forward with a cry and slashed the great arm, but his sword rang and clattered to the floor. There was a smoking reek as of hot metal, and Gimli saw that the blade was notched.

Before he could fully register what had happened there came another sharp cry and Frodo – Frodo of all people! – ran forward and stabbed at the giant foot. A deafening bellow shook the chamber and the foot and arm were jerked back.

The Company stood for a single heartbeat’s stunned silence and then the great door crashed fully open. Orcs swarmed into the chamber, and suddenly things were happening very fast. Frodo scrambled back from the onrushing force and Aragorn shot an Orc that thrust a wicked blade at the Ring-bearer. Boromir forced another back with his shield and then caught up his sword and ran the foul creature through. Legolas was shooting with utter calm and fatal accuracy, his hands moving faster than Gimli’s eyes could track. But the Orcs kept coming. Five fell in the time Gimli drew breath, but the sixth came from the side and under range, forcing the Elf to stow his bow and draw his knives.

And the Orcs were past the front guard and were at last – at last! – in range. Gimli swung his first strike low, catching one Orc in the knees, then flipped the blade over and smashed another between the eyes. The hot stench of black blood rushed over him, filling his lungs and coating the roof of his mouth with the bitter taste of iron. A red haze washed over his vision. Dimly he was aware of the shouts of the Company, the cries as Gandalf and the Hobbits joined the fray, but these sounds came as though from a great distance, remote and unimportant to the bloodlust thrumming in his veins.

He felt near drunk on blood and hate. The bones of his kin, his friends, crunched beneath his feet and nothing mattered but making these demons pay for what they had done. He swung his axe in a great arc and sliced easily through the necks of two Orcs, then caught the upper handle and jerked the weapon sharply to the side. The force of his arrested blow sent a tremor up his arm, but he scarcely noticed and the heavy wooden staff slammed into the neck of a third Orc, crushing its windpipe. He was braced and set, his feet barely needing to move as his weight shifted in balance to his weapon.

There was a tremendous crash of stone and a billow of dust, and the cave troll smashed into their midst. Gimli did not pause to think. He hurled a throwing axe into the great chest with a force that could split steel. The troll staggered, but kept coming.

It was huge, grey-green and scaly with small muddy eyes in a great flat face. It stank of sulfur and rotted flesh and it moved with the clumsy power of boulders rolling down into a pit. Blood oozed from a gash in the top of its left foot. The Orcs led it by a long chain around its neck.

It swung a massive club at Gimli, and he leaped back as the huge iron studded head came crashing down. Two arrows sang past Gimli’s ear and struck the troll’s shoulder, and the blow was deflected to smash the stone near his feet.

Gimli hardly registered the near miss. There was a roaring in his ears, and all that mattered was that here was another target for his fury. He hewed down an Orc that stood in his way and slashed his axe at the great legs. The heavy skin deflected his blade, but the sheer force of the blow bruised the flesh beneath, and he heard the troll bellow in pain.

Time blurred then. The troll was gone, out of his sight, and he slashed and cut down the lesser Orcs without thought or reason. Things seemed to be moving very slowly. Gimli swung his axe in a slow arc, his heart beating away the seconds in silence until at last he connected and sliced through the enemy’s flesh and there was a scream and a sudden rush of blood and noise, very close, and then silence again.

Once he looked up and the haze cleared briefly and he saw Legolas standing on top of the troll, his bow bent and aimed at the creature’s head. Can’t he ever just stay on the ground, he thought briefly, and then the battle closed in again.

And then it was over. Gimli caught his axe partway through a swing as he realized that his foes had vanished. He staggered slightly from the spent momentum and looked around. The Orcs were gone. The troll was dead, and the Fellowship stood about the body in silence. They had won.

An aching void seemed to open in Gimli’s heart, and he fell to his knees before Balin’s tomb. They had won, but the victory was as ash that crumbled in his hands. Balin was still dead. Oin was gone, his uncle, his cousins, his friends: all were dead. Khazad-dûm was laid waste and nothing would bring it back. Gimli could fight until his great axe splintered, his arms gave way, and his legs could no longer hold him, and it would make no difference. His kin were dead and their graves defiled, and no vengeance in the world would bring them back. This was the glory of the Dwarves, their last hope, and it was meaningless. The Enemy had won.

A pool of thick black blood was slowly creeping beneath his knees, but he paid it no mind. The others were moving, speaking, but their voices faded and were lost in the howling emptiness within him. His heart still beat, his lungs drew in air, but to what purpose? He lived still, when so many others more worthy than he had died defending their home. His life was a mockery of their sacrifice. Gimli bowed his head and closed his eyes as a great well of despair filled him.

The voices were growing louder, more insistent. There was a clatter of running feet and a soft cry, and then someone was speaking to him. “Master Dwarf.” His eyes were burning. “Master Dwarf, get up. We cannot stay here.” Gimli shook his head. Let them run, if they could. The Enemy would find them in the end, and he at least preferred to die here, with his kin.

A cool hand gripped his shoulder then, and a musical voice spoke soft and clear with an intensity that pierced through the darkness around him. “Gimli. Gimli look at me.” That voice had never spoken to him thus, had never spoken his name before. The shock of it made Gimli raise his head and look, and there were the clear eyes of Legolas looking back at him. The Elf was crouched beside him in the sticky pool of blood, one slim hand still on his arm. “Time grows short, Master Dwarf. We must go.”

Gimli shook his head again, but did not look away from Legolas’ gaze. His voice was thick with strain. “I failed them.”

Legolas’ fine brows drew together, as if in pain, but Gimli saw a light of understanding in his eyes. “It was no failure of yours, Gimli.” The Elf’s voice was a whisper laid with the steel of conviction. “They fought bravely. All of Arda will remember them, I promise.”

Gimli wanted to protest – how dare the Elf deny his failure, pretend to understand his pain? But at that moment a great crash sounded without the chamber, and the floor trembled beneath them. Gimli thought he smelled smoke. Legolas looked past him toward the door, and his eyes widened in fear.

“We have no further time for debate, Master Dwarf.” The Elf’s hand tightened like a band of steel about Gimli’s arm, and he was lifted to his feet by a strength he had not imagined. “The Ring-bearer needs you now.”

Frodo! A new wave of shame engulfed him. How could he have forgotten? Khazad-dûm was lost, but all of Middle-earth would follow if he failed Frodo now. The horror of it was enough to make Gimli try to find his feet, as Legolas dragged him to the eastern door, and by the time they reached the stairs he was moving under his own power.

*~*~*

The beat of the drums had been as a counterpoint to Legolas’ own pulse of emotions, pounding against the mix of euphoria and dread that thrummed within him. When they stopped he was left empty, all the brief joy from the light and the long terror of the Shadow drained away in the silence and he stood clear and cold with resolve.

All through the battle he was detached, moving and turning and attacking with automatic reflexes honed through centuries of training. But the Orcs, the troll, were not the true Enemy. He could feel that one coming, a slow, suffocating darkness that curled against his mind. It was so close now, so close.

He slashed an Orc across the throat and leaped back, turning and trying to catch Mithrandir’s eye through the fray. They must not stay here. It was a trap, and these petty creatures were nothing to concern them. He could not see the wizard, but there was Aragorn fighting alongside Boromir, and he started to make his way over to them. But then he saw something that made him stop for a moment and catch his breath.

Gimli was fighting. Not just fighting – the Dwarf was a barely controlled fury consumed with a fire that flickered deadly in his eyes. Legolas wondered that the Orcs did not collapse from the heat of his gaze alone. Gimli hardly seemed to move, his feet were braced and it seemed that no force in Arda could shift him. The Orcs rushed to him and broke like a wave dashed against a mountain. As Legolas watched a great Orc nearly as big as a Man swung its heavy blade against Gimli’s arm. The blow clanged and the sword shivered in two, shattered against the Dwarf’s chain mail. Gimli hardly seemed to notice. He turned almost casually, but the rage in his eyes belied the easy grace of his movement. He swung his heavy axe up in a swift arc that sliced easily through the Orc’s armor and continued, lifting the Orc off its feet and flinging it up into the air to finally crash down again several feet away. Gimli’s chest was heaving; his breath heavy even through the harsh cries of battle, but there was no sign of fatigue in his movements. It seemed that the need for vengeance alone was enough to sustain him.

A blur of movement caught Legolas’ eye then and he glanced to the side. Aragorn had moved away from Boromir and was backed against a side alcove, facing the cave troll. Even as Legolas caught sight of him the troll swung one huge arm and struck Aragorn full across the face, lifting the Man off his feet and slamming him into the stone wall. Estel! But before Legolas could cry the name the troll caught up a long spear and thrust it into Frodo.

The Ring-bearer did not scream. Only a small gasp of air escaped his lips, but that tiny sound cut through the noise of battle as a shivered knife and froze Legolas’ heart. There was a slight catch of breath at Legolas’ side and he saw Mithrandir at last. The wizard’s face was wrought with shock and horror. In that moment Legolas felt the Shadow fall over them all, and Something knew them in the depths, and burned with amusement. Time stretched in the silence, and Legolas heard clearly the distant clink as Sting fell from Frodo’s hand, the whisper of his clothes as the Hobbit slowly collapsed to the floor.

Sam screamed then, a harsh cry that broke through the ice and darkness. He was crying, forcing his way toward his master. The others were also shouting and screaming and there was an assault of noise and the clash of metal, and time rushed up again to an impossible speed. Merry and Pippin were somehow on top of the troll now, and Boromir was fighting with a fury to near match Gimli’s, and Mithrandir was burning in cold wrath terrible to behold.

But Aragorn did not move. The noise and fury rushed around Legolas and away, and his mind grieved for Frodo and the blow done to all their hopes, but his heart cried for Estel. Very far away he heard the whisper of his father’s voice, the weight of concern with which Thranduil had warned him against loving a mortal too much. He could not grieve – it was too sudden and too close for that. He had sworn to protect Frodo, and he had failed. He had given his friendship and his love to Aragorn, and Aragorn was gone. Aragorn was gone, and in the cold aftermath of shock he found discipline and clung to it.

He forced away the reproach of his father’s words, the rush of guilt for Frodo, the horror of Aragorn’s loss and the near crushing weight of Shadow. He walked forward, and the Orcs did not block him. Deliberately he drew a single arrow and nocked it and drew it back to anchor point. The troll was twisting about, trying to shake off the Hobbits that clung to its neck. Legolas could see its mouth move as it bellowed, see Merry’s face twist in a scream, but he heard nothing. He was encased in an icy silence, and his hands did not shake as he took aim. This was what he had been trained for, what he had been born for. He was the greatest archer Mirkwood had ever known, and he would not fail. Not this time.

Merry fell, flung off by one massive groping hand, and that left one less distraction. Pippin was still on the troll’s neck, and Legolas would have to be careful not to shoot through the troll’s skull and strike the Hobbit. He took note of this danger and adjusted his draw slightly to compensate, his mind noting the distance and angle with cool logic. The troll arched back and to the side, and Legolas tracked its movement. The bow strained against his hands, but his arms were steady and his muscles did not quiver. He would hold this draw for eternity, if necessary. He would not fail.

Then Pippin stabbed with his small sword and the troll threw its head back and bellowed in pain, and there was the target. The snap of the bowstring was such a small sound, small as a gasp of air, devastating as the crush of bone against rock. The troll groaned, one hand coming up to grope at its mouth in bewilderment. It staggered, swayed and fell, but Legolas did not feel the tremor as it collapsed to earth. He stood still, watching, ready to draw and fire again if the creature stirred, but it was dead.

He turned away then. The troll was dead and his duty to the Company was fulfilled, and he could go to Aragorn at last. But even as he turned the Man stirred, and his chest rose and fell in a ragged breath that sounded harsh and wonderful to Legolas’ ears. He froze, his heart thudding wildly, and Aragorn dragged himself up on his forearms. He was alive! Legolas could have run to him then, pulled him up and hugged him and thanked the Valar that this blessed, maddening Man had cheated death just once more. But Aragorn had drawn Frodo into his arms, and grief was plain in his eyes, and the Shadow was nearly upon them. Legolas drew a slow breath and held it, fighting down the swirl of joy and pain that rushed through him. He was shaking.

Mithrandir pushed past him then. Legolas’ senses came rushing back, and he smelled the hot iron of blood and felt the tremor of rock as something shuddered in the deep, and now the drums were sounding again, doom, doom through the dark halls. “Now!” shouted the wizard, and at his words the others turned and seemed to shake out of their shock. “Now is the last chance. Run for it!”

Aragorn stood, pulling up Frodo in his arms. He staggered slightly but kept moving. Sam was close by his side, tears tracking through the dirt on his face. The gardener was bleeding slightly from a gash on his scalp, but he kept one hand twined in Frodo’s cloak. He carried Sting in the other. Merry and Pippin were on their feet again. They seemed shaken but uninjured. Aragorn pushed them along in front of him toward the eastern door. Legolas started to follow, but then he heard Boromir speak behind him.

“What is he doing?” The Man’s voice was drawn and strained with impatience. “We don’t have time for this!”

Legolas turned back. Boromir had swung his shield up onto his back and was looking at Gimli, who was kneeling by Balin’s tomb with his head bowed. Boromir shouted to him, “Get up, Master Gimli! We leave now!” But the Dwarf did not stir. Boromir turned away and ran to the eastern door. He seized hold of it and began struggling to draw it closed. The Orcs in the chamber were dead, but Legolas could hear the scrabble of hard feet coming up the outer hallway.

He moved toward the Dwarf. Boromir was a Man, and a Man raised in Gondor at that. Legolas did not entirely understand mortal joy or grief, but from observing the Men of Laketown he thought that they differed from Elven emotions. Men could give themselves over to their feelings with an intensity that would be dangerous to an Elf, and yet they rarely did so. They seemed able to delay grief, or transform it into guilt or anger or some other emotion. But what little he had seen of the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain suggested that they were more pure in their emotions. Boromir did not seem to understand Gimli’s raw pain, or the grief he felt here, in the ruin of his ancestral home and the tomb of his family.

Legolas was a warrior, and with a warrior’s discipline he had focused on eliminating the immediate threat to his companions. But had Aragorn been dead he would not have been able to leave the body. He would have stayed at his friend’s side, and given himself up in battle as surely as if he died of grief. It was this love that Thranduil had cautioned against, and that same strength of love and loyalty was at the heart of Gimli’s pain. It was only the latest of a long series of bitter ironies that the one member of the Company best suited to understand the Dwarf now was an Elf.

Legolas stood just behind Gimli and to the side, wondering what he could say. He remembered the terrible strength and fury the Dwarf had shown in battle, and he marveled at the weight of pain that could so crush this great warrior. But the drums were rolling in the deep, and a strange pall seemed to be cast over the light that streamed down onto Balin’s tomb. Legolas could nearly hear the wisp and crackle of flame.

“Master Dwarf. Master Dwarf, get up.” Shadow was thick and dark over his vision, and Its icy touch stroked along his skin like fire. Legolas shot a swift glance at the broken door. “We must go.”

But Gimli only shook his head, and for all his tension and fear Legolas felt a pang of empathy for the Dwarf. He crouched down, balancing lightly on his toes in the growing pool of blood that soaked Gimli’s knees, and touched the Dwarf’s arm. “Gimli.” It was only as the word left his lips that he realized he had meant to say it. “Gimli, look at me.” The Dwarf lifted his head then, seeming as shocked as Legolas was to hear his name in the Elf’s voice. He met Legolas’ gaze, and the utter despair in his eyes sent a ripple of pain through the archer. No Elf had ever been forced to turn away from a Dwarf’s gaze, but Legolas could have done so then. He swallowed hard and struggled to make his voice light, to counter the grief and power of this moment. “Time grows short, Master Dwarf. We must go.”

Gimli shook his head again, just a slight jerk to the side, and his dark eyes burned with pain. His lips barely moved as he spoke, a whisper that carried a world of sorrow and guilt. “I failed them.”

Legolas’ fingers tightened on his arm in wordless sympathy, feeling the texture of oiled leather and steel and the rock hard muscles beneath. There were no words he could say, no way to counter that bitter pain. But great as Gimli’s loss was, it was in the past. It was consigned to memory and song now, and more urgent matters were at hand. He spoke briefly of duty and honor and memory, but he knew that they meant nothing to the Dwarf now. The loss was too great.

A Power seemed to curl up through the hall and around them in the small chamber, and Legolas felt it trace over the small hairs at the back of his neck. There was a crash and the floor shuddered. He looked through the outer door again, but could see nothing. An unnatural blackness was growing there, a physical presence far more than mere absence of light, and Legolas’ muscles sang with the need to run. He whispered to the Dwarf through lips cracked and dry with fear, and hauled Gimli to his feet. “The Ring-bearer,” he began, the Ring-bearer is dead, he meant to say, but could not bear to add to Gimli’s guilt now. “The Ring-bearer needs you now.”

That seemed to shock the Dwarf from his stupor, and he staggered as Legolas pulled him from the tomb. They ran through the eastern door and came to a halt on the landing with the others. Boromir had finally gotten the door moving and was pulling it shut. Legolas made certain that Gimli was stable on his feet and let go of him. The Dwarf seemed to have regained control.

Legolas stretched out one hand and touched Aragorn’s shoulder lightly, just to reassure himself that the Man was truly still alive. The Ranger glanced at him briefly and nodded, but then turned his attention back to the Hobbit cradled in his arms. Frodo’s face was white and pinched in the gloom. His dark hair trailed curls across his forehead, and his eyes were sealed shut. Aragorn drew one hand sadly across the small face.

Frodo gasped and opened his eyes, and Legolas’ heart stuttered in his chest. Aragorn nearly dropped the Hobbit in shock, but Frodo gasped, “I am all right. I can walk. Put me down!”

“I thought you were dead!” Aragorn said, and Legolas could have hit him. He should talk!

“Not yet!” cried Mithrandir. “But there is no time for wonder.” Boromir had pulled the heavy door closed and was leaning against it, staring at Frodo in shock. The wizard grasped his shoulder and pushed him away from the door. “Off you go, all of you, down the stairs! Wait a few minutes for me at the bottom, but if I do not come soon, go on! Go quickly and choose paths leading right and downwards.”

Aragorn set Frodo gently on his feet and fixed Mithrandir with a steely gaze. “We cannot leave you to hold the door alone!” At that moment the coiling Power seemed to tighten about them. Legolas gasped and nearly staggered under its weight. Mithrandir glanced at him, and Legolas saw a flash of sorrow in the Maia’s eyes. But when he spoke his voice was hard and fierce with resolve. “Do as I say! Swords are no more use here. Go!”

Legolas pulled Aragorn away, but the Ranger seemed to accept the wizard’s words and ran with him down the stairs. They were blind, stumbling in the dark with only the clatter of Boromir’s boots and Gimli’s muffled curses to guide them. Legolas could feel Aragorn at his side, hear the others as their footsteps and voices echoed in the narrow passage, but he could see nothing beyond the faint light immediately about his own body. There was a horrible presence around them, unfocused and yet maliciously aware. The darkness of the passage was a near tangible thing, thick and close as a net cast to block them.

Finally they reached the bottom and stumbled to a stop at the leveled foot of the stair. There was a soft shuffling as the Hobbits gathered together. Pippin gave a sharp cry, “Ow! You stepped on my foot!” and there was a muttered apology from Boromir. Then silence save for Sam’s soft voice, whispering a litany of reassurances to Frodo. Legolas doubted that Frodo was in any state to hear them, or that Sam himself was really aware of what he was saying.

Legolas focused on the spark of light at the top of the stair. He could see Mithrandir’s lined face clearly. The wizard stood at the unbarred door, his head bowed and his white eyebrows drawn together in concentration. His lips moved and Legolas caught the words of his shutting spell. Small currents of air twisted and flowed past him, and the very walls seemed to tremble. Aragorn whispered at his side, “We should not have left him.”

Legolas shook his head slightly, not taking his eyes off the wizard. “We could not help him.”

“Couldn’t we?” Aragorn’s voice was bitter. “What do you feel, Legolas? Is it truly worse than the Shadow of Dol Guldur? And your people have fought that for centuries.”

Legolas turned his head sharply toward the Ranger. Aragorn was nearly invisible in the darkness, but he was standing close enough that the planes of his face caught Legolas’ faint light. His eyes glittered in the dark. Legolas wondered what he sensed. Aragorn was mortal, but in him the blood of Númenor ran true. He had some foresight, and at times a near Elvish perception. But did he really think that the Shadow here was no worse than in Mirkwood? Perhaps, Legolas thought, the loss of Song truly has affected my mind. Perhaps the Ring plays upon my fears, and this Power is an illusion. But Mithrandir had sent them on, and Legolas remembered the look of pain and sorrow in his eyes. Perhaps Aragorn is overconfident.

“We fight the encroachment upon Mirkwood,” he said cautiously. “We do not seek the Shadow in its lair. And it is not my place or yours to judge Mithrandir. We must protect the Hobbits.”

Shadows shifted over Aragorn’s face as his jaw clenched. “I do not fear for us, or even for the Hobbits now. I felt before we ever came here, and I feel it now, that Moria is not the Fellowship’s bane. But I fear for Gandalf.”

Before Legolas could respond to that there was a rumble overhead, and the walls around them shuddered. The air suddenly seemed too thick and close to breathe. Legolas choked and caught Aragorn’s arm. A great Power seemed to roll down the steps toward them, curling about them and trailing icy fingers that burned across Legolas’ back and ribs and traced up toward his neck.

Then there was a great flash of white light above that struck back the darkness and the phantom fingers vanished. The Power was gone, and suddenly Legolas could breathe again. He drew in great draughts of air, his chest heaving, and blinked back the dark afterimages burned in his eyes. The drumbeats pounded wildly and there was a rumble and a crash, and the drums stopped.

The light was gone. There was a clatter of running feet and Mithrandir came flying down the stairs. He crashed headlong into Aragorn and his staff struck Legolas’ side as he fell to the ground. He was gasping for breath, and Legolas wished deeply that he could look at the wizard outside, in a forest. Mithrandir’s spirit seemed shaken, his tone discordant as Legolas had never heard it, but he dared not trust his senses here in this dead pit of stone.

But Mithrandir pushed aside their concern as he got to his feet, and drove them onward. He led the way, but his staff was dark now and he leaned heavily on Gimli. The Dwarf walked on in silence. He appeared to have pushed aside his personal grief to focus on the Company, and he led them seemingly without need of light. Legolas could only follow, listening intently to the footsteps of the Company to ensure that none were lost.

The Shadow was lessened now, but it was not gone. Yet Legolas could only feel it, heavy and hateful upon them. He could see nothing. They were in the absolute darkness now as they had not been in all their journey in the mines. Even when he and Gimli had scouted the lower passage there had been light from Gimli’s torch, and those of the Orcs. Now there was nothing. Legolas did not fear mere darkness, but he found it frustrating. On a clear day he could see ten leagues with utter clarity, and he was used to sensing any danger long before it threatened him. Now, deprived of light and trapped far from even the faint trace of Song in the great hall above, he felt blind and deaf. Not only that, Gimli’s comment during their scouting mission had reminded him that though he could not see the others, they could see him in the faint glow that surrounded him. So could anything else that lurked in the caverns. He was vulnerable, helpless to protect the Ring-bearer or his companions, and utterly dependent on the guidance of a Dwarf.

They went on and on, stumbling in the darkness and groping their way down stairs that dropped suddenly from under their feet. There was no sound of pursuit, but the air seemed to be growing hotter. Finally Mithrandir called a halt. “I am very weary,” he gasped. “I must rest here for a moment, even if all the Orcs ever spawned are after us.”

There was a shift of robes and clink of mail as Gimli helped him sit down. “What happened away up there at the door?” the Dwarf asked. “Did you meet the beater of the drums?”

“I do not know,” the wizard said. “But I found myself suddenly faced by something that I have not met before.” Legolas grasped his bow convulsively. There was very little that was beyond the Maia’s experience. Mithrandir went on, describing the shutting spell he had used and his final confrontation with the Power on the other side of the door. Legolas listened, but the words came echoing as if from far away. He remembered the breath of Shadow on his neck, the horrible burning touch that seemed so icy and so intimate, the bitter taste of death and the resonant Power. It is real. No invention of the Ring’s, no illusion of the dark. It is real and it is coming, and Aragorn was right. Mithrandir was right. Our fate is bound with it somehow, and we cannot escape.

The conversation had turned to Frodo now, and the others were marveling over his miraculous survival. Legolas forced himself to focus. Hopeless or not, they could not give up the quest. Gimli had overcome his loss and pain to help Frodo. Legolas could do no less. He was a warrior and a prince of the Sindar, and he had fought the Shadow all his life. He would not give in now.

Nonetheless, he was relieved when Mithrandir struggled to his feet and they continued on. He would give his life to protect the Ring-bearer, but he would rather run and fight than sit in the dark for the Shadow to find them. He hated waiting.

The floor was smooth now and seemed to slope away downwards. They went as swiftly as they could, though Legolas was careful to stay behind the soft patter of Hobbit feet and just ahead of Aragorn’s steady stride. He was peering into the dark, straining his eyes though he knew there was no light to be seen, until suddenly there was. He saw a faint red glow, flickering ahead of them, though in the darkness Legolas could not judge the distance to it. Aragorn had not said anything about it, and Legolas did not know if that was because the light was beyond his range of vision, or if it was because it was only another illusion.

But then Gimli spoke and confirmed the light, and before long the others could see it also. Legolas noted that the Dwarf had seen it before the other mortals – he had keen eyes in the dark.

Now he could see the others in the uncertain light, and the road stretching down before them. They came out through an archway into another great hall, even larger than the one they had spent the night in previously. The red light flickered and was reflected in the smooth black surfaces of a double line of massive columns that marched down its length. To their right a great fissure was opened across the width of the hall. Flames licked its edge and smoke reeked from the pit. The air was burning hot and dried the soft tissue of Legolas’ nose and throat as he breathed.

Suddenly the beat of drums came again, far closer and faster than before. Aragorn drew his sword and moved between Mithrandir and the pit. Shrieking cries and horn calls echoed in the hall, and the wizard shouted, “Now for the last race! If the sun is shining outside, we may still escape. After me!” He turned and ran, and Aragorn sheathed Andúril again and urged the Hobbits forward. They needed little encouragement. They flew along the great hall, their bare feet light on the stone as they followed the wizard. Gimli came after them, his heavy boots thumping solidly with every step. Boromir ran past him to keep pace with the Hobbits, but Aragorn stayed behind. Legolas held himself back to match step with the Man, his bow held tightly in his left hand and slicing through the air as he ran.

There was a shrieking cry behind them and the whistling of arrows. But Boromir laughed. “They did not expect this,” he said. “The fire has cut them off. We are on the wrong side!” Legolas glanced back. The black figures of the Orcs swarmed behind the pit of flames, but he could see the flash of their mail and the glint of sharp arrowheads as they strung their bows.

“Look ahead,” cried Mithrandir. “The bridge is near.”

It was. The floor simply dropped away before them and a slender bridge of stone sprang across a great chasm in a single arching span of fifty feet. Legolas looked at it doubtfully. He had never in his life troubled about heights, but he had never trusted artificial structures, either. He was sure-footed as all Elves and could easily run through the uppermost branches of the trees in Mirkwood forest, but he knew that the trees would not let him fall. He had no such assurance from this Dwarf bridge.

They had halted at the edge of the chasm when the Shadow entered the hall. Legolas felt it as a physical blow that struck with full weight of all the hate and malice he had sensed since entering Moria. His heart constricted in his chest and he gasped, the hot air searing his lungs. But he did not run.

He turned to face it and drew and set an arrow with hands that moved with the speed and surety of centuries of training. The end of the hall was shrouded in a physical blackness that was sweeping toward them. The Power was a weight that crushed down upon him, and the phantom fingers did not trail: they raked down his throat and burned freezing traces along his chest and abdomen. He shuddered but held his draw. The Shadow was far yet, but he had shot longer distances before.

But then the Shadow parted, as though black wings swept it back, and all the horror of all the ages that the Elves had fought was revealed. The demon was huge, wreathed in flame and shadow that curled about it and defeated Legolas’ eyes. It reeked of sulfur and its flaming whip and sword seared the air. Terror swept out from it as a wave that staggered him and his hands jerked and his bow shivered as a small fracture ran up its frame. The clatter as his arrow fell was lost in the screams of a thousand Elves that assaulted his mind, as if all pain of all the ages that Elves had fought the Enemy and lost and died in agony was captured and hoarded and fed upon by this creature of Morgoth, and Legolas opened his mouth and joined his voice to the cries of his kin, and the name of the thing came to him from the depths of time and legend, and its power shook him to his soul. “Ai! Ai!” he cried. “A Balrog! A Balrog is come!”

Very faintly there came a distant clatter as Gimli dropped his axe. “Durin’s Bane!” the Dwarf whispered, and Mithrandir sighed. “A Balrog.” The Maia’s voice was strained and heavy. “Now I understand. What an evil fortune! And I am already weary.”

Flames roared up as the demon leaped the pit. It was coming, and darkness ran ahead of it and flame streamed behind it, and Legolas was frozen before it. Some distant part of him screamed for action, to fight, to run, but he could not move. His mind was locked in shock and horror of recognition. He knew this creature. Knew it at a depth beyond legend or name, knew it in his bones and in his soul. It was a servant of the Shadow that had hunted Elves since their beginnings, the Shadow that had sought them ere Men or Dwarves drew breath, before the world saw light of sun or moon. It had known him in these mines, had touched his body and seared his soul, and it claimed him as its own.

Then there came a piercing blast, a cry that was of no Orc horn, and the spell was broken. The Balrog faltered, and Mithrandir called in a voice of renewed strength, “Over the bridge! Fly! This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way. Fly!”

Legolas blinked and wrenched himself away from the dark power. He staggered slightly and looked around. Boromir still held his horn to his lips, but the last echoes of the challenge were suddenly cut off, as if smothered in a dark wind. The Shadow advanced again.

Gimli pushed past Legolas and caught Frodo by the arm. Frodo was nearly jerked off his feet but caught himself and ran after the Dwarf onto the bridge. Sam followed his master without a backward glance, and Pippin pulled Merry after them. Aragorn and Boromir stood fast at Mithrandir’s side, but the wizard shoved them roughly toward the bridge and turned back to face the Balrog, his staff held before him and a fey light in his eyes. A white light seemed to flicker about him, and Legolas felt suddenly a terrible strength in him, a Power as dreadful as the demon’s, but pure and clear as Song.

And Legolas understood. He caught Aragorn’s arm and Boromir’s, and pulled the Men the rest of the way onto the bridge. Then they followed him, their heavy boots making the bridge shake behind Legolas’ own light steps. He cast a brief glance toward the great depths that yawned beneath him, and wished fleetingly for the familiar curve and spring of a living branch. Then they were over the bridge and on the solid rock beyond, and Aragorn grasped his shoulder as they wheeled around to look back across the chasm.

Mithrandir stood alone in the center of the bridge, facing the demon at the other end. The wizard leaned on the staff in his left hand, but his right held Glamdring up, cold and white, and his voice was resonant and strong.

“You cannot pass.” Silence fell over the great hall, and in that silence Legolas thought he heard the first faint notes of Song. “I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!”

The Balrog stepped slowly forward onto the bridge, and the Shadow swept out as it unfurled its great wings. Legolas felt it as the trace of a knife brushed over his skin, and trails of fire ran down his nerves. Aragorn pushed forward, but Legolas caught the Man’s shoulders and pressed him back. “No! We cannot help him. It is his right.” Aragorn looked at him, and Legolas saw agony in his eyes. He tightened his grip, feeling rough wool and the smooth leather of Aragorn’s quiver strap beneath his fingers. His voice died to a sob. “It is his choice.”

The Balrog’s fiery sword flashed down, and Glamdring came up in answer, and the demon’s weapon shattered in a flare of white fire. A wave of sheer Power slammed past them, and the walls shook. Mithrandir swayed but did not falter. “You cannot pass!”

The demon leaped full upon the bridge, and its whip hissed fire through the dark. Aragorn shoved Legolas back, and the Elf, still reeling from the shock of Power, let him go. “He cannot stand alone!” the Man cried, and the raw pain in his voice smote Legolas’ heart. Aragorn ran back to the bridge. “Elendil” he shouted, “I am with you, Gandalf!”

“Gondor!” cried Boromir, and ran after him.

But Mithrandir raised his staff and struck the bridge with a cry, and a sheet of white flame roared up at the Balrog’s feet. There was a loud echoing crack, and the bridge split asunder. The stone gave way beneath the demon, and for an instant the Shadow stretched out and filled all the hall, and the horrible weight of malice drove Legolas to his knees.

Then it was gone, dragged down into the abyss as the Balrog fell. But the whip of fire snaked up suddenly and caught Mithrandir by the knees, and dragged him to the brink. For an instant the Maia clung to the edge, and in that moment Legolas heard the Song clear and sweet, and infinitely sad. The wizard gasped, “Fly, you fools!” and slipped over the edge, and was gone.

*~*~*

A/N: Well, no Mary Sue, but we did finally get to that cave troll. I’m wiped out. Coming as soon as I recover, Chapter 9: the aftermath.

A/N: In the spirit of keeping as true to the books as possible, portions of dialogue were lifted intact from pages 371 to 374 of The Fellowship of the Ring, the 2003 Ballantine books movie cover edition.

Disclaimer: Everything worth anything is Tolkien’s. I’m just running around his playground.

Chapter 9: After

Frodo’s scream pierced the horrified silence and broke them from their shock. Gimli wrenched his gaze from the black chasm that yawned before them and looked around. With Gandalf’s fall the hall had plunged back into darkness. The far end was lit in red flame, against which the black shadows of Orcs flickered and danced. Arrows screamed past them and Boromir pulled Frodo away, shielding the Ring-bearer behind him.

Gimli could hear the Hobbit’s ragged breathing: tearing gasps that shook his small frame as he struggled against Boromir’s grip. Behind him Pippin was making a high keening sound in the back of his throat. With an effort Gimli pulled away from the gaping pit and joined Boromir in pushing the Hobbits back, keeping his own body between them and the rain of arrows.

He backed Merry against the wall next to Sam and twisted around to look over his shoulder at the hall. Where was Aragorn? They had to get the Hobbits out of here. He saw Legolas first, still kneeling at the edge of the chasm, glowing clear and distinct against the shadows. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed. Golden hair fell in a curtain past his face. Gimli ground his teeth. What is he doing? He might as well be holding a target for the Orcs!

He was about to shout a warning when the Elf suddenly pushed to his feet and leaped up and to the side in a movement too swift to track. His hair fanned as an arrow shot past, directly where he had been an instant earlier.

Legolas turned to look at them, and his eyes were dark with confusion and pain that struck Gimli to the core. Then the Elf glanced back toward the Orcs and deliberately moved away from where Gimli and Boromir sheltered the Hobbits. He darted across the open space and slipped behind a cluster of narrow pillars, blocking himself from view of the Orcs.

“Aragorn!” Boromir was still struggling with Frodo, and had now pulled the Ring-bearer completely off the ground. It took Gimli a moment longer to see the Ranger. Aragorn stood at the base of the ruined bridge, Andúril still naked in his hand.

He turned slowly at Boromir’s cry, as if swimming up from a dream. He looked at them without recognition, and Gimli saw utter despair in his eyes. But he seemed to draw himself together, and swallowed hard.

“Come,” he said. “I will lead you now.” As he said this a weight seemed to settle on him, and his shoulders bent, and his face seemed old and haggard. But he drew a deep breath and the muscles along his jaw tensed. After a final look into the pit he broke away and ran for the stair. Boromir pushed the Hobbits after him. Gimli had started after them when he realized that Legolas had not stirred from behind the pillars.

“Elf!” he shouted. “Move!”

Legolas did not look at him. He was staring out at the Orcs, and when he spoke his voice was so soft that Gimli could hardly hear it. “If I follow, they’ll see me. They’ll track us. Get the others to safety first.”

“No! We all go together!”

Legolas still wasn’t looking at him. He shook his head and started to say something more, but Gimli had had enough. It required only a slight detour to shift course to Legolas’ shelter and slam one broad shoulder into the Elf’s side.

Had Legolas been a Man he certainly would have been knocked down and possibly injured, for though it was a glancing blow Gimli hit hard and without warning. But as it was, the Elf instinctively moved an instant before Gimli connected, leaping back and twisting with the Dwarf’s momentum to land on his feet a good two meters away.

He stared at the Dwarf in shock, one hand pressed to his ribs, breathing hard. “Move!” Gimli shouted again. Legolas looked as if he wanted to protest, but they were already clear of the pillars and exposed to the Orc arrows. So with a final disbelieving look the Elf turned and sprinted for the stairs, with Gimli coming hard at his heels.

They ran up the narrow steps and down a long dark passage. Gimli’s heavy boots rang on the stone floor and the echoes joined with the pounding footsteps of the Men ahead of him. The Dwarf could see Legolas running just ahead of him, but nothing else. There was no time to feel his way. Gimli watched the Elf’s feet and followed along the smoothest part of the passage that he could find.

But as they ran he soon found that he could see the rubble at the sides of the corridor: there was light ahead. Looking up he could make out Boromir’s heavy cloak ahead of Legolas, and there was a glimpse of Sam’s overly large pack, swinging from side to side as the Hobbit ran.

Then there came a cry from up ahead and a dozen black shapes blocked the light as Orcs flooded in from a side passage. They shrieked and gibbered in the Black Speech, and their drawn swords clashed against their jagged shields.

Aragorn did not even slow down. With a single swipe Andúril cleaved through the Orc chieftain’s neck. The Hobbits slipped past on light feet and Boromir shifted his hold on Frodo as he used his shield to force his way through the throng. Legolas did not bother to draw his knives. He slammed the base of one hand into an Orc’s face, then pivoted and kicked another in the chest. Then he was past and running into the light. Gimli knocked two Orcs down and ran over the top of them, taking small satisfaction in the crunch of bone under his hobnailed boots.

The remaining Orcs scattered, and Gimli burst through the narrow opening and into the clear sunshine beyond. He followed the others down the stony slope of Dimrill Dale, well out of bowshot of the Orcs.

He was panting by the time they finally came to a halt. His lungs, weakened by years of breathing stone dust, labored as he gasped in the clear, cold air. It was painfully bright; for though the shadow of the Misty Mountains lay over them the sun was high, and white clouds scudded across a cerulean sky.

Gimli blinked his stinging eyes and looked around. Merry and Pippin had collapsed together at the base of a great rock. Pippin was sobbing in high, terrified gasps. Merry had his arms around him. The older Hobbit’s face was blank with shock, and he held Pippin as if clutching a lifeline.

Boromir had finally set Frodo down and the Ring-bearer wandered away from the Company, his head bowed and his back to them. Sam followed him a short ways and then simply fell down onto the rock, his hands over his face. Aragorn stood a short distance away, his arms at his sides. Andúril hung loosely from his hand, the tip resting on the stony ground. Legolas stood apart, straight and still as a young tree in winter’s frost.

Gimli caught his breath and swallowed hard. “We must go back,” he said. No one answered him. “The Elf can stay and guard the Hobbits. Aragorn, Boromir, we must go back.”

Boromir stood a little ways up the slope, between him and the cave entrance. Now the Man raised his head, and his face was lined and weary. “What would you have us do, Master Dwarf?”

Gimli lifted his hands. “We have to look for him. We cannot leave him to the Orcs.”

Boromir gave a small, ragged gasp, like a half-strangled bark of laughter. “He is gone, Gimli. The fall . . . and that . . . that thing that took him . . .” the Man passed a hand over his eyes and was still for a moment. “We cannot go back, three against five hundred, to look for him.”

Gimli stared at him a moment in disbelief, then rising anger. “Coward.” He turned his back on Boromir and looked at the others. “We must go back!” He was breathing hard now, and his hands clenched into fists. “He is a wizard! He would not fall so easily!” He stared around. No one looked at him. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll go by myself.”

He strode purposefully up the slope, small pebbles turning under his boots as he climbed. But Boromir moved quickly to intercept him, and caught him with one arm across his chest. “Gimli,” the Man said, “Gimli think what you say. Think. If there were any hope, if there were the slightest chance . . .” Boromir trailed off and shut his eyes. His hand clenched on Gimli’s shoulder, and his powerful frame shook. “He is dead, Master Dwarf. He is dead.”

“No!” But Gimli knew the falsehood even as he spoke it, and though he struggled against Boromir’s restraining arm he did so without strength, and his legs were hollow and weak. He sagged against the Man, and tears burned down his face. He was gasping, pushing against Boromir, but his chest heaved with choked sobs, and he was shaking as badly as the Man that held him. Slowly his struggles stopped, and he simply stood with Boromir’s arm around him, and he wept.

*~*~*

The rush of cool air as they came out on Dimrill Dale had gone to Legolas’ head like a draught of strong wine. After so long in the dark and the stone and the dead silence of Moria, so long a time spent straining to detect the faintest hint of Ilúvatar’s Song, the free air and sunlight and the glorious sounds of life crashed over him and all but overloaded his senses.

He breathed deeply of the fresh clean air and dashed down the slope, not caring in the first heady rush of freedom that he passed up the rest of the Company and left them behind. He could have lived on nothing but that glorious pure air, vibrant with the taste of pine and growing things. It was winter, and the breeze that swept over him was cold, but he threw back his head and opened his arms to it, letting it blow back his long hair and tease his skin.

Everywhere he looked there was life. Green plants, dormant in rhîw’s chill, waited only the breath of spring to send forth new shoots. He looked out over the hills, and saw the great forest sloping away green-gold, and the glint of Anduin in the sun. So much space! Such great distances, sweeping out before him, until the misty haze defeated even his keen eyes. After so long in the dark, limited to a world just within the feeble glow of the wizard’s staff, the vast stretch of forest and hills was dizzying. He tracked the flight of a small bird through the forest edge three leagues distant, watching the play of light and shadow over its beating wings. Bird song and tree song mingled and everywhere, everywhere there was the sound of life, the whisper and dance as the forest delighted in the wind and sun, and welcomed him.

And yet . . . and yet he could not join that dance. He breathed the air, and gazed out over the hills, and heard the call of the green wood. But it bid him rejoice, and that he could not do. For the one who had led them safely through the endless dark was not there, and as he listened it seemed to him that there was a note gone from Ilúvatar’s Song, a discord that never should have been.

Mithrandir was gone. The Song was distorted, and it seemed to echo as if from a great distance. The clear, distinct tone that was unique to the kind Grey Pilgrim was simply gone. It was not a lack that Legolas heard with his ears, but a great chasm that opened in his heart. He stared around, at the sky, the forest, the hills and mountains. It was all as it had been before they entered Moria. Somehow, impossibly, the world had gone on. They had passed through the blackest pits of Shadow, they had faced the darkest servant of Morgoth, and yet Arda continued unchanged. It went on, as it always had done and always would do, and Legolas felt its eternal rhythm in his soul.

He did not understand. If the world continued, so must Mithrandir. The two were bound together, just as Legolas himself was bound. So long as the world endured, so did they. That was the nature of life, the nature of immortality. Legolas knew death. He had seen it young, and often, as the Age crept by and the Shadow of Dol Guldur lengthened. Every warrior of Mirkwood was prepared for it; everyone had lost family to the long defeat.

But Mithrandir . . . Legolas did not know exactly what the Maia was, but he was greater than this. He was a servant of the Song itself, and Legolas had felt the Power in him. There was an air about him like that of the High Elves who had returned from Aman, but greater. For all his foul pipeweed and his short temper and his fireworks and his creased face and his kindly eyes, he was not of Arda. Death could not take him so easily, could not pull him from Ilúvatar’s Song itself. And yet he was gone.

Legolas struggled to comprehend, to twist his mind around this impossible contradiction. And he remembered the Maia’s words in a buried cavern a lifetime ago. It is my right. It is my choice.

His choice. Death had not pulled him from them. For all the demon’s flaming whip and sword, the Shadow was not that strong. It could not have defeated him without his choice. His choice. As if what the others might choose, what the Ring-bearer might wish, did not matter.

Legolas stared unseeing at the green hills, his hands clenched at his sides. Mithrandir had chosen this. Why? To protect them? There could have been another way. There had to have been another way. Legolas had warned him, had begged him to reconsider their path, and he had refused. Why? For ignorance? For bravado? He was not so stupid. Could it be… could it be that Mithrandir wanted to leave them? Was the quest truly so foolhardy, so hopeless, that their only guide wished to be free of it?

A distant pain filtered through the mist of hurt and confusion: his nails were digging into his palms. Legolas ignored it. His breath was short and his chest hitched as he struggled to understand. The aching void within him was slowly being filled as shock gave way to the red rush of anger. If Mithrandir had chosen this, if he had wished to leave them thus, then he was a coward. He was a coward, and deserved no part in Frodo’s mission. And if the Valar received him, if they turned away from Middle-earth’s fate, then they were cowards as well. They left the One Ring in the hands of a Hobbit, and all the world swung in the balance with only a few mortals and a Wood-elf to fight for it, and the Valar had turned their backs, and they were cowards! Legolas lifted his head to scream this to the sky, to cry challenge to Manwë himself, but only a faint gasp escaped his constricted throat. He was shaking with rage, but grief sealed his lips. His heart burned, and though his eyes were dry, his soul wept.

“Legolas!” Aragorn’s voice filtered through as though from a great distance, and he turned slowly. The Man had sheathed Andúril and was standing erect, looking at him. His eyes were clear and dry, and his hand rested lightly on the sword’s hilt, but his face seemed to have aged ten years. There was a note of exasperation in his voice, as if he had been calling for some time. “Legolas, get them up. Boromir, Gimli! Get them up.”

Slowly Legolas walked back up the slope toward them. His feet seemed strangely heavy as he dragged them over the rocky ground. His hands ached and he carefully unclenched them, flexing to work the cramp from his fingers. Aragorn had lifted Sam to his feet and was calling to Frodo, but Boromir broke away from Gimli and confronted the Ranger. His voice cracked with raw pain as he lashed out at Aragorn, pleading for time, time to grieve, time to heal. Aragorn’s impatient response carried a wealth of frustration, but Legolas did not heed the words. The Men’s voices washed over him in a tide of grief and hurt, broken phrases devoid of meaning. He reached the young Hobbits and touched Merry’s shoulder lightly.

The Hobbits seemed to gather themselves, blinking owlishly up at him and then slowly getting to their feet. Pippin’s sobs had given way to a choked hiccupping, and Merry kept one arm around him. But they were up. Legolas turned from them to look at the others. Aragorn and Boromir had broken off their argument and were now at opposite sides of the camp, each furiously ignoring the other. Frodo had come back to them and was standing silently next to Sam, his eyes cast down. Gimli stood where Boromir had left him. He was staring back up the slope toward the entrance to Moria. But he turned as if feeling Legolas’ gaze upon him, and for an instant their eyes met. The depth of pain and grief in the Dwarf’s eyes staggered Legolas, and he actually took a step backwards. But a moment later Gimli’s gaze hardened and his heavy brows drew together, and he glared at the Elf as if challenging him to mention aught of pain or weakness. Legolas met his stare and narrowed his own eyes, putting all his own rage and hurt into a searing glare worthy of Thranduil himself. Gimli blinked and looked away.

Legolas felt no pride in his victory. The rush of anger drained away, leaving him shaken and numb. Aragorn urged them forward, and he followed, but he felt strangely detached as they set out over the hills. He seemed to be watching himself from a distance, the movements of his body separate from his mind. Even the song of the forests was distant and unreal.

With an effort Legolas focused his attention on their surroundings. Aragorn had set a furious pace, but it would not do to go rushing heedlessly into unknown danger. Here, at least, his senses were of use, and he scanned the rocky slopes and approaching trees carefully. They had not gone far, however, when Gimli called a halt.

“That is Durin’s Stone!” he cried, indicating a tall column not far from their path.

Aragorn glanced at it but did not pause in his long stride along the broken road. Gimli, however, halted and planted his stocky legs firmly apart, his hands on his hips. “I cannot pass without turning aside for a moment to look at the wonder of the dale.”

Aragorn blew out his breath in a heavy sigh, looking from Gimli to the pillar and then back along the path they had traveled. “Be swift, then!” he said finally. He started to say more, to warn of the coming sunset and the Orcs sure to follow, but the Dwarf did not wait to hear it.

He whirled and ran down the green slope toward the pillar, calling to Frodo as he went. As he watched Frodo and Sam follow Gimli more slowly, Legolas wondered if the Dwarf hadn’t deliberately sought to give the Hobbits a rest. They had come this far without complaint, but there was a long way yet to go. In the aftermath of shock and horror even Legolas was exhausted. The Perianrim were incredibly resilient, but they had to take three steps to every one of Aragorn’s, and they had already been pushed beyond all reason on this horrible day. Merry and Pippin looked close to collapse, and Boromir was standing over them protectively.

Aragorn was pacing impatiently back and forth along the path, his right hand curled tightly around Andúril’s hilt. Legolas watched him for a short time, then stepped forward and caught his arm. Aragorn whirled, one hand coming up, but he stopped when he saw the Elf. He stood still and lowered his hand slowly.

“Legolas,” he said.

Legolas studied him closely. There was grief etched in the lines of Aragorn’s face, and weariness, but there was also something more. “Aragorn,” he replied. “Aragorn, we must find shelter soon. The Hobbits cannot endure much more.”

The Ranger jerked away from Legolas’ grasp. “They will have to do the best they can. It is miles to Lothlórien.”

“We must find something closer. They will not make it so far without rest.”

Aragorn’s face twisted, and his voice was a low snarl. “What would you have me do? Conjure a safe haven from thin air? Ask the Orcs to please not follow us until we have rested?”

Legolas narrowed his eyes, and his own voice carried a thin edge of warning. “I said not so. I only meant –”

“I know! I know what you meant. I’m doing the best that I can. But I am not Gandalf, and unless you can offer something helpful I suggest that you keep quiet and leave me alone!”

Legolas stepped back in shock, and Aragorn turned away. But pride flared within the Elf, and he could not let the Man escape so easily. With a few quick steps he circled and blocked the Ranger’s path again. Aragorn stopped and glared at him impatiently. “I did not ask you to be Gandalf,” Legolas hissed, stepping close. “No one asks you to be more than what you are. But if you are to lead this Company, Aragorn, you must lead. Take care of the little ones. They depend on you.”

Aragorn met his eyes then, and Legolas saw in him a wealth of anger and frustration, but beneath that there was guilt, and grief, and fear. Aragorn was frightened. Aragorn, who he had seen face a dozen Orcs without pause; Aragorn who had lived years alone in the Wild; Aragorn who had once, after an ill-fated hunting trip with Legolas, faced down King Thranduil himself; Aragorn was afraid. He looked down and seemed to study the dusty leather of his boots.

“Perhaps they should not.” His voice was low: all anger had drained from it. Legolas tilted his head quizzically, trying to see the Man’s face. Aragorn continued, still looking at the ground, his words so soft that Legolas had to strain to catch them.

“Perhaps I am not fit to lead the Company. Perhaps they should not depend on me. Boromir can lead them, or you –”

“Stop.” Legolas caught the Man’s wrist, gripping so tightly that Aragorn drew a sharp breath and looked up. “Stop this. You can lead them. There is none better. Your destiny –”

“Enough!” Aragorn’s voice was soft but vehement. He jerked back, but Legolas did not release his grip. “I am sick unto death of that word. My entire life, I have heard it. The heir of Isildur, the great hope of Númenor. You want to know what that hope is? Do you?” He stepped close then, so that Legolas could feel the heat from his body and smell the dust and sweat that clung to him. His voice was a warm breath, his lips close to Legolas’ ear. “I have heard the Ring. I feel it calling to me, and now that Gandalf is gone, what is there to stop me from answering? If I claimed it, if I took it as Frodo offered it to me, who would stop me? You, Legolas? Could you stop me? Kill me to save Middle-earth?”

Legolas turned his head to look into Aragorn’s eyes. They glittered with a strange light as the Man stared at him. Legolas licked his lips. “You told me once,” he whispered, “to trust the strengths of my companions. I say to you now that I have done so, and I ask you to do the same. I would follow you to whatever end, and offer my friendship as support against that which calls you.”

Aragorn stepped back, and Legolas let him go. “Your friendship,” the Man said. He bowed his head, and drew a shaky breath. “The Enemy comes with ten thousand legions of hate, and we have nothing with which to face him but friendship.”

“It may be enough.”

“Maybe.” Aragorn lifted his head. He seemed more weary than ever, but his eyes were clear. “We must cross the Silverlode at least. There is another stream not far past it. We will make camp there, and the Hobbits can rest a little.”

Legolas looked at him searchingly for a long moment, and then nodded. Gimli was laboring back up the slope toward them now with Frodo and Sam just behind. Aragorn turned away, and they soon set out again.

*~*~*

Aman: the Undying Lands, The Silmarillion

rhîw: winter Sindarin, Appendix D: the Calendars

Manwë:Sindarin name for the lord of the Valar, The Silmarillion

Perianrim: A group of Hobbits, The Sindarin Phrase Book

A/N: Well, we’re finally out of the caves. Next up: Lothlórien.

A/N: Large portions of dialogue in this chapter are lifted from Lothlórien, The Fellowship of the Ring, page 379-385 of the movie covered Ballantine books edition. I’ve left Tolkien’s dialogue intact and added words of my own elsewhere. See the Lothlórien chapter for the real version.

Disclaimer: All characters are the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien and are claimed by many people, none of whom is me. No profit is made from their use here, and no disrespect is intended.

Chapter 10: Understanding

They reached the Nimrodel after dark. The setting sun had cast long shadows over the hills and woods, and the golden haze of the trees faded into deep night as they stood before the eaves of Lothlórien.

Legolas breathed deeply of the cool night air and listened to the endless susurration of the forest. The moonless sky was beset with myriad stars that wheeled and danced overhead, and their song blended with the night-speech of plant and tree. As they neared Lothlórien he felt the burden of grief and pain ease, the aching tension and weariness fade.

Aragorn too seemed more at ease. He appeared to take refuge in the small needs of the Company, and did not speak of their greater burden. Twice he had halted their flight from Moria to tend to the Hobbits. He had seemed to focus on them entirely: bathing their wounds with athelas and joking over the discovery of Frodo’s mithril coat.

But Legolas had not missed the way his strong frame bent with weariness when the others were not looking, or the way his hands shook when they touched Frodo’s garments, and passed within a hair’s breadth of the Ring.

Aragorn was fighting a battle within himself, one that Legolas did not fully understand and one that, for all his promises of friendship, he could not help Aragorn win. He could only stand in mute support at the Man’s side, and he felt the frustration of this helplessness twist within him.

Still, the golden forest seemed to stir some well of memory within Aragorn, and the lines of his face were less severe as he spoke softly of the Elves that lived deep within Lothlórien. Legolas had never traveled farther than the distance from Mirkwood to Imladris, and certainly had not ventured south past Dol Guldur. But he had heard tales of the Lady that dwelt here, and he shared what little he knew, seeking to reassure the Hobbits as they approached the shadowed woods.

Gimli, too, seemed unnerved by the silent expanse. He walked at the rear of the Company with Frodo and had not said much since they left Durin’s Stone. Legolas, looking back at them, had twice caught the glint of eyes that followed in the dark, and he felt a distant gratitude that Gimli stayed protectively with the Ring-bearer. He had not unstrung his bow, but he felt the stress on the thin fracture in its frame, and he had only three arrows left. If ever they came to shelter this night he would have to make more arrows, and replace the bow as well. He felt unbearably weary at the thought.

But for all Legolas’ words and Aragorn’s promises, at least one member of the Company was not reassured. Boromir stopped at the edge of the wood and refused to move for a long moment, staring distrustfully into the dark shadows. “Is there no other way?” he said.

Aragorn glanced at him with thinly disguised impatience. “What other fairer way would you desire?”

Boromir did not look at the Ranger, and when he replied his voice was tight with a thin edge of tension. “A plain road, though it led through a hedge of swords.” He glanced over at Aragorn then, an unfriendly look through slitted eyes. “By strange paths has this Company been led, and so far to evil fortune. Against my will we passed under the shades of Moria, to our loss.” There was a slight intake of breath from Sam, and Legolas started forward. But he stopped at a small gesture from Aragorn, and stood still. All the Company was weary and strained by grief, but Boromir was pushing a dangerous line. Aragorn showed no reaction, but waited for Boromir to finish. Legolas stood motionless beside him, waiting to see what the Ranger would do, but one hand strayed near the knife at his back.

Boromir continued, glancing from Legolas to Aragorn, and gesturing toward the trees. “And now we must enter the Golden Wood, you say. But of that perilous land we have heard in Gondor, and it is said that few come out who once go in; and of that few none have escaped unscathed.”

Aragorn drew a slow breath, and it was a moment before he spoke in a soft, controlled voice. “Say not unscathed, but if you say unchanged, then maybe you will speak the truth. But lore wanes in Gondor, Boromir, if in the city of those who once were wise they now speak evil of Lothlórien. Believe what you will, there is no other way for us – unless you would go back to Moria-gate, or scale the pathless mountains, or swim the Great River all alone.”

Legolas noted the skillful way that Aragorn had avoided Boromir’s challenge over the choice to go through Moria, and his pointed reminder of their current priorities. Boromir seemed to accept this as well, and looked away. “Then lead on,” he said at last. “But it is perilous.”

“Perilous indeed,” said Aragorn. “Fair and perilous; but only evil need fear it, or those who bring some evil with them.” There was a slight pause. A shadow seemed to pass over Aragorn’s face, and Boromir turned back toward him, watching him with narrowed eyes. Legolas tensed. But Aragorn soon shook himself and looked up again. “Follow me!”

As they passed at last into the wood Legolas mused over this exchange. Necessity for action had won over the Men’s continued sniping, and Aragorn was speaking as a leader and captain. It seemed that he at least accepted that the Company needed him as such. But still there was doubt, and Legolas saw the way that Aragorn glanced at Frodo before leading them into the forest, and he remembered Boromir’s strange fixation during the long night in Moria. Truly the Company did bring evil with them, as they had done since setting out from Rivendell. And the strain of Mithrandir’s loss seemed to have brought all their tensions to the surface. Or is it more than that? Legolas thought of the Men’s strange behavior, and, to his shame, his own blind arguments with Gimli. If we continue thus the Company will splinter. And if this be not a contrivance of the Ring’s at least we serve It’s purpose. But how to overcome the tension between Gondor’s son and Gondor’s heir, or between an Elf and a Dwarf . . . that Legolas did not know.

The endless cycle of question and doubt, of wondering what was their own thought and what was the Ring, was exhausting. Legolas was weary, from lack of sleep and little food, but even more from the long dark under stone and Shadow, and aching grief. The temptation to lose himself in reverie as they walked under the gentle wood was nearly overwhelming. Again and again his eyes began to glaze, and he focused with effort on their surroundings.

The trees here were smooth, with silver trunks and rustling golden leaves that seemed to shine even in the dark. The stars were sharp and close above them, and Legolas heard their song like a call from the endless depths of time. The tree-song, too, was soft and deep as it never was in Mirkwood, where the trees were ever alert and wary to the evil in their midst. And as he listened he heard a new voice that ran and fell in silver tones through the dark.

“Here is the Nimrodel!” he said, when at last they reached the deep bank with the swift-running stream. He was aware of Boromir regarding it doubtfully, and Gimli was looking at him from beneath lowered brows. Legolas could all but read the Dwarf’s thought, of another stream in an Elven wood perhaps. He sighed briefly and began to tell them of the songs that Silvan Elves still sang in the north, of Nimrodel’s golden falls. “Follow me,” he said at last, when the others showed no sign of moving. “The water is not deep. Let us wade across. On the further bank we can rest, and the sound of the falling water may bring us sleep and forgetfulness of grief.”

“Or more than that,” Gimli muttered beneath his breath, and Legolas shot him an exasperated look.

“There is no tale of the Nimrodel giving aught save rest and ease to the heart.”

Gimli shrugged, but made no move toward the water. “And I am sure that we would all be well rested if we fell into deep slumber for days, and our hearts would be eased if we lost our memories.”

Boromir looked more on edge than ever at this, but Aragorn had his arms folded and was leaning against a tree, watching them with a distinct air of amusement. Legolas resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. “There is no stream outside of Mirkwood that has such power.”

“That you know of.”

“The Elves of Lórien have no need for protection of that kind.”

“And the Elves of Mirkwood do?”

“We do seem to be plagued with more visitors than trouble this wood.”

“So you have an enchanted river at your doorstep?”

“It is a simple enough precaution.”

Gimli snorted. “Oh yes, if one wishes to render any potential allies unconscious upon arrival!”

This time Legolas did roll his eyes. “Welcome visitors would be ferried across. And any fool ought to have enough sense not to go bathing in it!”

Gimli opened his mouth in rejoinder, but at this point Aragorn stepped forward and raised his hands. He spoke straightforwardly enough, but one corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. “Enough. Legolas, cross the stream and we will see its effects. I for one am tired and do not wish to spend the rest of the night debating the merits of Mirkwood’s defenses.”

Legolas shot the Man a swift look and caught a definite glint of humor in his eye. He smiled slightly in response and then turned and leaped lightly down into the stream. The swift current flowed easily around his calves, and he felt the cool water through his thin boots and sighed as the pure stream washed away the ache of weariness and loss. Nimrodel’s sweet voice was clear and gentle, seeming to flow from the endless depths of time and memory and running on into song and legend.

The others appeared to feel this as well, and Frodo in particular seemed to delight in the play of water around his knees. Even Boromir and Gimli did not hurry in their crossing, though Gimli did stamp the water from his boots and shake out his leggings with more vigor than was absolutely necessary upon reaching the opposite bank. But he looked sidelong at Legolas as he did so, and Legolas recognized that he was being baited, and only smiled at the Dwarf before turning to lead them on into the wood.

They did not go far along the path, however, before Merry’s rather pointed inquiries about the chances of finding game or perhaps edible shrubbery prompted them to sit and share some of the dwindling supply of food from Sam’s pack. Legolas took his fair share of dried fruit and meat without any prompting from Aragorn, and ate swiftly.

Then he sat back, resting against the solid brace of a smooth tree bole with one leg drawn up toward his chest, and listened to the forest. It was so calm! The trees had not changed their song from the slow gentle rhythm that he had heard as they approached, and the voice of the wood seemed as one with the song of the stars, cool and soothing and remote. Where were the guards? Were this Mirkwood, the Company would have been sighted long ere they approached the wood, and the trees would have whispered of their movements. Aragorn said that the folk here dwelled deep within the forest, but surely they did not leave their borders unprotected?

No, it was more likely that they had been sighted, and even now were under observation. Legolas lifted his eyes to the boughs overhead, casually scanning the shadowed treetops. He did not see anything, but he did not expect to. The trees of Mirkwood would hide their guardians, even from the eyes of another Elf. These strange trees did not seem so responsive to their environment, but perhaps he simply did not understand their song properly. At any rate there was little he could do until the watchers chose to reveal themselves.

Legolas allowed his eyes to glaze slightly, feeling the night whispers wash over him and join the gentle song of Nimrodel. The immediate pain and anger of Mithrandir’s loss was slowly maturing into a deeper ache that pulsed within him. The cool whisper of the trees and stars soothed the burning of his heart, and the hurt seemed to blend into the long gentle grief of the running stream.

“Do you hear the voice of Nimrodel?” he murmured into the lull of the Company’s satiety. “I will sing you a song of the maiden Nimrodel, who bore the same name as the stream beside which she lived long ago. It is a fair song in our woodland tongue; but this is how it runs in the Westron Speech, as some in Rivendell now sing it.”

In a soft voice scarce above the gentle fall of silver water he began, drawing the words up from memory of long quiet evenings in the Hall of Fire, when he had finished his courier duties and had sat at peace and played games of song with Elladan and Elrohir, and later with Estel. The words seemed strange to his tongue, clumsy and rough for their purpose, but they brought the memory of firelight laving gold over smooth woodcarvings, and the flash of his friends’ eyes as they laughed, and the gentle light that played over their dark hair.

The words were of Nimrodel, but he sang in grief for the loss of that peace, for the loss of friendship, and of hope. He sang for Mithrandir.

But from the West has come no word,

And on the Hither Shore

No tidings Elven-folk have heard,

Of Amroth ever more.

It was too much. The pain welled within him and choked his voice, and there was no comfort in song, no, not even in the Song this night. He made excuse to the others, and forced himself to answer their questions, but he paid no heed to what he said. The keening grief cut through his heart, and he turned his face upward, and watched the stars.

*~*~*

Gimli sat at the edge of the path with his back against the soft bank and watched the forest. He was comfortably full, for the first time in days, because with the promise of game nearby Sam had not spared the rations. But he was not at ease. The others leaned back against the trees or bank and ate or talked softly together. He could see the lines of strain and grief in their faces, but their voices were lighter and gentler than they had been on the Dale, and even Boromir seemed to relax as no immediate threat materialized from the shadowed trees. As the last fragments of bread and cheese were consumed and the Company gradually fell quiet he even took out his shield and began to polish it with slow strokes, and that was as close as Boromir ever came to looking completely relaxed.

Gimli shifted uncomfortably to avoid a root that was digging into his back and shot a sharp look into the darkened woods. The trees loomed close about them. There was no underbrush, and the silvered trunks rose straight and smooth as pillars all around. But darkness fell between them, and it was silent. No bird sang, no insect whirred, and there was not even the squeak of a bat or the brush of an owl’s wings to disturb that silence. Gimli’s hearing was not as sharp as a Hobbit’s or an Elf’s, perhaps, but it was still better than that of many Men, and his night vision had been honed by years experience in dim caverns and half-lit mines where air was scarce and could not be wasted in the feeding of torches. But though he strained his senses to their utmost there was nothing to be seen in the forest depths, and he heard nothing save the endless murmur of the nearby brook.

He felt strangely lost in that emptiness. The forest’s silent depths unnerved him, and he felt as though he were suspended over some great abyss, horribly exposed and helpless to prevent the inevitable fall. There was nothing to catch him, nothing to hold on to. Khazad-dûm was lost. Gandalf had fallen, and Gimli had abandoned him there. He had looked into Durin’s mirror, and there had been only the endless fall of stars. Time itself seemed suspended here, and even the ground was soft and yielding. He wished for just one rock, one solid stone against which he could brace himself and get his bearings. But there was nothing. There was only the silence and the dark, and the endless fall of water.

The voice of the stream seemed to grow louder even as he listened, and there were words to it. Then he realized that the music was not in the brook alone. Legolas was singing. The Elf’s voice was soft, scarcely to be heard apart from the falling water. It blended with and seemed to compliment the stream, and Gimli found himself drawn somehow to the gentle song.

The words were of an ancient Elf legend, hardly anything with which a Dwarf might identify, and yet he sensed that Legolas’ intention was more than that. He sang of loss, and grief, and the depth of pain in his clear voice touched a well of sorrow in Gimli’s own heart.

Gandalf was dead. He was gone, and would never again appear unexpectedly in the inns and back-alley bars of the exile to lead Dwarves on unexpected adventures. He would never again come to the Lonely Mountain with a cartload of fireworks for Durin’s Day. Glóin would never have the chance to claim a rematch in his efforts to defeat the wizard at blowing smoke rings.

Gandalf was gone, lost in the abyss of Moria, and Gimli had left him there. He had abandoned Gandalf when the wizard had needed him most. His kin had fought and died for their home, and Gimli had done nothing. Gandalf had fought back Durin’s Bane, and Gimli had done nothing. Khazad-dûm was laid waste, Moria a tomb, and everything, everything was lost. What hope had they now? Without Gandalf, what chance had they? A rag-tag band of travelers, and a Hobbit with the One Ring – it was laughable. His lips drew back, baring his teeth in a feral grin, and a ragged laugh choked his throat.

But the song continued. Legolas’ clear voice rose and fell, his gentle tenor rich with a pure sorrow that carried no hint of blame, or guilt, bitterness or anger. There was only pain – sharp and honest without the confusion of mortal emotion. Gimli felt himself falling into that clear song, the ache of his own heart matched and mirrored in that grief, and slowly the weight of guilt eased. Then the song faltered, and Legolas fell silent, and there was only the endless fall of water. Gimli blinked and looked around. His face was wet.

“I cannot sing any more,” Legolas whispered after a moment. “That is but a part, for I have forgotten much. It is long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came upon Lothlórien, Lórien of the Blossom, when the Dwarves awakened evil in the mountains.”

Gimli shuddered at that, for it was very like what he had been thinking himself. “But the Dwarves did not make the evil.” He heard the words, spoken in his voice, desperately wishing them to be true, but not daring to believe it. He wanted Legolas to argue with him, so that he could fight back with ringing invective, so that he could drown out these plaguing doubts with certainty: for if the Elf said it, it must be false.

But Legolas only looked at him, and his eyes were full and dark with sorrow, and Gimli felt his own grief magnified and reflected in them. “I said not so,” the Elf whispered sadly, “yet evil came.” He continued, telling more of the story behind the words of his song, but Gimli did not hear.

His mind was reeling. Evil came. They could fight it, or cower before it, or ignore it, and it would come nonetheless. For the first time he thought of the dark tower just a few leagues to the north, and the long Shadow in Mirkwood. Evil had come there, and had grown, despite the efforts of the Elves. How long had they fought against it? How many had died? He thought of how Legolas had climbed the pillar of the Dwarrowdelf, just to be a little closer to the light. What would it take to make such a playful creature into the silent and deadly warrior that habitually walked with the Company?

And if the Elves suffered from evil they did not make, then did not the Dwarves do the same? Had they not been hounded and driven by a terror they could not face, and an evil they did not deserve? Gandalf had fallen in Moria, but had he not also faced a threat nearly as great in Dol Guldur? Gimli had heard rumor of such a thing, though the wizard never gave straight answers if asked. And the Dwarves had lost their homes, but so too the Elves were being driven from Middle Earth. Fading, they said, as if their time were somehow measured and cut short, these immortals. His father had spoken of them with scorn, the Elves from Rivendell who seemed secure and safe, and yet more fled to the Havens every day. The Wood-elves at least stayed, and fought, but how long could they continue? Against the growing evil, how long could they last? If the Fellowship failed, if Frodo did not succeed, they too would surely fall to darkness. They had perhaps another hundred years, maybe two, and what was that to an Elf?

Madness. This is madness. Gimli shook himself. He was empathizing with an Elf. Moreover, he was empathizing with the spoiled Elf-prince who had tormented him throughout their journey, who had insulted his kin and his heritage, and whose father had imprisoned his own father and had jeopardized the mission to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.

And yet the strange sense of understanding did not leave him. Perhaps it was the song, perhaps it was this too-silent and disorienting forest, perhaps it was the loss and grief that they all shared. Legolas finished his tale, saying, “the people of the woods did not delve in the ground like Dwarves, nor build strong places of stone before the Shadow came.”

There was a long silence. Legolas had tilted his head back, and was staring up at the stars. Gimli swallowed. He wanted, somehow, to convey his understanding, this sense of connection, before the Elf did something foolish and spoiled it. Finally he said quietly, hearing his own voice strange in his ears, “And even in these latter days dwelling in the trees might be thought safer than sitting on the ground.” The others turned to look at him in surprise, and he felt himself flush red. Madness. Truly I am mad. But Legolas looked at him a long moment in shock, and then nodded, and Gimli saw a glint of returned understanding in his eyes.

“Your words bring good counsel, Gimli,” Aragorn said, when he had recovered his voice. “We cannot build a house, but tonight we will do as the Galadhrim and seek refuge in the tree-tops, if we can. We have sat here beside the road already longer than was wise.”

Gimli suppressed a groan. Spending the night in the tree-tops! Clearly he was not the only member of the Company who was mad. Perhaps Legolas had done something to infect them all, with his song? “I was speaking in the abstract,” he muttered, as he pushed to his feet and prepared to leave. He spoke too quietly for the others to hear, he thought, but Legolas shot him a swift look, and he saw the hint of a smile play at the corners of the Elf’s lips.

*~*~*

Legolas led the way between the silvered trees and deeper into the forest. He could hear the heavy tread of the others behind him, and the rustle and crunch of the grasses beneath their feet. And yet the forest seemed somehow untouched, removed from the mortals that ventured into its depths. The silence and the sense of peace grew stronger as they ventured farther from the Nimrodel. The trees grew greater, vast grey trunks that stretched up to catch the stars. Legolas could feel their roots running deep beneath him, drawing up the eternal pulse of Arda. The branches swayed far above him, remote and free from the cares and grief of the earth. He reached out to touch the smooth bark as he passed, trailing sensitive fingertips over the texture of the wood. Life beat deep within the great boles, and he felt the long slow pulse of the ages, held in endless memory there.

He had never sensed anything like this before: it was as if time itself were powerless here. There was only memory, far stronger and more real than the fleeting troubles of a single Age. He longed to climb into these trees, to learn their song and dance in their branches, and to forget the pain of the mortal earth.

“I will climb up,” he said when at last they reached a small clearing in the midst of a cluster of the great trees. He tried to keep the eagerness from his voice, and spoke only of the mellyrn as they were called in song, for it was clear that the others were still uncomfortable. Boromir had stored his shield at his back, and was fidgeting with his Horn.

Pippin, however, put the others’ thoughts into words as he stood with hands on his hips, tilting back his head to stare up at the massive trunks. “They will be marvelous trees indeed,” he said, “if they can offer any rest at night, except to birds. I cannot sleep in a perch!”

You can’t? Legolas thought the words in a flash, and felt a sudden impulse to laugh, or scream, or cry. He was pushed beyond all exhaustion, and simply lacked the energy to do any of those things. He was tired, and here, in these profoundly Elvish woods, he felt little patience for mortal limitations.

“Then dig a hole in the ground,” he answered carelessly, “if that is more after the fashion of your kind. But you must dig swift and deep, if you wish to hide from Orcs.” Then he leaped easily up, and caught a branch high above his head. But even as he swung up a commanding voice called sharply from above, “Daro!”

Legolas dropped lightly down again and froze, pressing his back against the tree. He stared up into the branches and caught the glint of starlight on a drawn arrowhead. It was not aimed at himself, he saw, but at Aragorn. The Ranger stood closest to him, and had his hood over his face. “Stand still!” Legolas hissed. “Do not move or speak!” There was no knowing what the Elves in these strange woods would think of mortals in their midst, and with his hood up Aragorn looked every bit the scruffy and disreputable ranger.

The others were ranged about the clearing, looking nervously from Legolas to the branches overhead. He was dimly relieved to see that Gimli was some distance apart from them, hidden in the shadowed overhang where a tree’s giant roots had pulled up from the ground. It was unlikely that the border guard had seen him.

There came the sound of soft clear laughter, and one of the guards lowered his bow. His hair gleamed in the starlight as he stepped forward along his high branch. “Are you herding múmakil into Lothlórien, brother? They breathe so loud that we could have shot them in the dark.”

Legolas returned his smile, mindful of Aragorn at his side. The Man spoke Sindarin as well as any Elf, and even if he could not make out the captain’s words, Legolas was well within the Ranger’s reach. So he matched the guard’s humor with politeness. “I bring guests to the fair wood, my lord. We are weary, and would beg shelter for the night.”

There was a slight stir, and the last arrow was lowered as two more guards stepped into sight. But the captain’s tone grew stern. “It seems to us that you entered and sought shelter ere you stopped to ask permission.”

Legolas lifted his chin. This was a game he had played countless times before, in his father’s court or negotiations with the Laketown men. He was tired, but not so weary that he would lose this battle to a guard of the border patrol. “I beg pardon. I did not know your custom. In the future I shall certainly go and seek the border guard myself, rather than waiting for it to find me. I should not wish to inconvenience you.”

One of the other warriors stifled a laugh, and the captain shot him an annoyed glance. But his voice held a note of amusement when he replied. “We heard your voice in song by the Nimrodel. You are one of Thranduil’s people, are you not? Long has it been since our kin to the north visited this land.”

We might say the same, Legolas thought briefly, and there’s been little aid from our southern brethren, though the dark tower is near as close to your borders as it is to ours. But he said only, “We have long held memory of fair Lothlórien in song. It is an honor to walk in her wood at last.”

“But you do not walk alone. There is the Perian with you.”

Legolas froze for a long moment, and regarded the captain carefully. He returned the look, blue eyes frank and appraising in the starlight. His golden hair was tied back in archer’s braids to fall over his shoulders. Legolas was suddenly struck by the realization of how long it had been since he had spoken with another Elf. Only a few months that he had traveled with the mortals, and yet it seemed an age. He met the captain’s eyes, and the other did not look away. Rather that clear gaze held him, and sought to look within him, and Legolas felt the older Elf’s tone, deep and strong and resonant with the endless unchanging forest about them.

Finally he replied cautiously, “There are many who walk with me.”

“But the Perianrim are of special concern, we are told. One, at least, plays a great part in the Song of late. Bring him up: we will speak with him.”

Legolas smiled briefly. “How shall I bring him? Can you catch him, if I throw him up to you? Or shall I wear him tied about my shoulders as I climb?”

One of the other Elves laughed. “No need. We will manage for him.”

A silvery rope ladder came falling gently down from the upper branches to rest against the great tree trunk. Legolas gave a brief summary of the conversation to the others, and asked them to wait at the tree base. They seemed more than ready to agree: Merry and Pippin were regarding the ladder with deep suspicion, Gimli had not moved from beneath the raised tree roots, and Boromir was looking more on edge than ever as he listened to the Elvish voices in the dark. Aragorn had pulled back his hood, but did not look the least interested in taking over negotiations from Legolas. So it was only a few moments later that Legolas ran easily up the ladder, followed more slowly by Frodo and a strongly disapproving Sam.

Legolas could hear the Hobbit muttering as he climbed: “Don’t see why we have to come up there. They could just as easily come down. Isn’t no place for a civilized conversation, up a tree I mean, it isn’t right nor natural.” Frodo made no response: he was climbing slowly and steadily, and seemed to focus entirely on grasping each rung tightly as the rope swung beneath his weight. He did not look down.

But Legolas took pleasure in the climb, scarcely touching the light rope as he went higher and higher into the starlit branches. In far too short a time it was over, and he stepped out onto a large wooden talan that stretched between the mallorn’s branches.

The guard captain was waiting for him. “Mae govannen, kinsman. I am Haldir of Lórien. These are my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin.” He indicated the two other Elves beside him. All three were shrouded in identical grey cloaks that seemed to fade against the shadowed leaves.

Legolas bowed slightly to them each in turn. “I thank you for your kindness. I am Legolas of Lasgalen.”

Haldir stiffened. “Legolas Thranduilion? Forgive me, my lord, I did not realize.”

Legolas started to object, but Rúmil interrupted. “Our courtesy is lacking. Please, my lord Legolas, sit down and refresh yourself.”

Legolas closed his eyes. Oh, please, not now. He had no energy for this. The Silvan Elves were notoriously formal about royalty – one of the reasons, he suspected, that the lord and lady of Lothlórien had not claimed titles. Oropher had found it useful in banding together the disparate groups of Wood-elves, and the tradition had continued in Thranduil’s family, but few outside of Mirkwood used it. Yet it appeared that Celeborn’s people kept the Silvan tradition, when given the opportunity to exercise it. Elven negotiations could go on for days under the best of circumstances – throw courtly protocol into the mix, and there was no telling when they would get done.

But he opened his eyes and managed to say politely after a moment, “Thank you. I am weary, and it is good to sit and rest in the forest again.” He folded his legs under him and sat easily at the edge of the talan. After a moment’s hesitation the others joined him. Orophin offered him wine from a travel flask and seemed ready to break out a full kitchen to cook him supper. Legolas managed to dissuade him from this at last, saying, “It is a courtesy that will be better appreciated by my friends, the Hobbits, when they arrive.”

“Hobbits?” asked Haldir. “I have not heard the word before.”

“Periannath. Halflings, the Men call them, but they have chosen their own name removed from Elvish speech, and should be honored with it.”

“And they shall be.” Haldir promised. Legolas was faintly aware of Rúmil repeating the strange word to himself, trying it in various pronunciations. He spoke little of the Common Tongue. Orophin, however, was clearly ill at ease, and kept shooting nervous glances at the wine flask, then the small bit of lembas that Legolas had accepted in lieu of a full dinner. Legolas cast about for some distraction before the Elf apologized again for the quality of the wine, or begged leave to prepare just one small delicacy to tempt his appetite.

“I was not aware,” he said quickly as Orophin opened his mouth, “that our southern kinsmen were in the habit of carrying mortal ladders with them. Or is your skill at weaving so great, that you created it ready in an instant?” Orophin shut his mouth in surprise, but Haldir caught the teasing note to the question and smiled.

“It proves useful on occasion, when there is baggage to carry up, as you discovered. We rarely travel on the ground, but some items do not transport well in the upper branches. But I hear that you live in a cave now, and would not be familiar with the practical considerations of life among the Galadhrim.”

Legolas stiffened slightly. It was a joke, of course, but there was a blade still in Haldir’s words, and he touched upon a sensitive subject. “We must all do as necessity dictates, in this time under the Shadow. The Elves of Mirkwood have a place of refuge. But most live in flets similar to this, though the trees are not so great. No doubt in such a mallorn as this the talan is security enough for you.”

Haldir met his gaze with faintly narrowed eyes, and spoke softly in a voice of veiled warning. “We are safe enough. Orcs do not venture into Lothlórien.”

Legolas met his gaze. “No,” he said just as softly. “I suppose they do not.” The promise of what was unsaid: the weight of hidden power and history, stretched long between them. Then Legolas relaxed, and let the challenge pass. “Truly I have never seen the like of these mellyrn. They are beautiful.”

Haldir sat back, and the tension eased. “Yes,” he said quietly, and his voice was deep with love for the great trees. “Yes they are.”

There came a slight scuffling noise then, and Frodo climbed up into the talan and then helped Sam up behind him. Haldir laughed and rose to his feet. “And here comes your baggage now! Mae govannen, my lord Hobbits.”

The others rose also, and Orophin uncovered a small lantern and regarded Frodo and Sam with frank curiosity in its light. Legolas took the opportunity to push the wineskin into the shadowed corner of the talan with the side of his foot. In truth the drink was of rather poor quality. He wondered briefly if some trade might not be arranged between Lasgalen and Lothlórien, for though their wine was inferior the lembas was truly remarkable. As a waybread it would sustain a patrol for months, and it seemed to ease the heart and spirit as well. It would surely be a great aid to the companies that served long months under the Shadow near Dol Guldur. The patrol’s weapons, too, seemed to be of high quality. Legolas tucked these thoughts aside for later consideration and focused on the immediate proceedings.

Frodo had returned Haldir’s greeting hesitantly, his accent a startling contrast to the march-warden’s easy Silvan cadence. Haldir switched to the Common Tongue, speaking slowly and carefully, with apology for his inexperience. “We seldom use any tongue but our own,” he said, “for we dwell now in the heart of the forest, and do not willingly have dealings with any other folk.”

Indeed not, Legolas thought, and wondered what secret lay hidden in the Elf’s careful words. Haldir claimed to have gone abroad for the gathering of news, but Legolas had never seen him, nor heard of anyone receiving guests of the folk of Lothlórien, save for the infrequent meetings of the White Council. Arwen was of that people, and had dwelt there from time to time, but she traveled with a guard from Rivendell. When had Haldir last ventured forth? Before the end of the Watchful Peace? Before Legolas had been born, perhaps. Time held little power here, and it would take many long years for an Elf to forget language. And yet even in his halting Westron speech Haldir spoke in layers of meaning, and Legolas felt the power that dwelt in these woods.

But Haldir’s next words called Legolas back to give full attention to the conversation. “You do not look evil,” he was saying. “And since you come with an Elf of our kindred, we are willing to befriend you, as Elrond asked; though it is not our custom to lead strangers through our land.” And here is another piece to the puzzle, Legolas thought, watching him with narrowed eyes. So Elrond had asked them to give safe passage to the Fellowship. Haldir had not let slip that bit of information carelessly. The more he watched this Elf, the more certain Legolas was that Haldir had never done anything careless in his life. No, it was deliberate. But no representative of Lothlórien had been present at the Council of Elrond. And none could travel so swiftly to Imladris and back again, now that the mountain passes were closed.

There was some connection between Lórien and Rivendell, some communication that Mirkwood did not share. And, he thought, remembering the gentle peace that pervaded the hidden valley, even as it did these woods, there was power in them both that Mirkwood did not have. He thought that perhaps he could put a name to that power, and find the connection between Lord Elrond and the Lady. And he thought too of the Noldor that passed on to the Grey Havens from Imladris, more leaving every day. Was this why the Elves of Rivendell were so certain that their time was over, that they must leave Middle-earth? What will happen to that valley, to these woods if Frodo fails? And if it was the Rings, if the very havens of Elvendom in Middle Earth were so tied to the One Ring . . . what will happen if Frodo succeeds?

All this flashed through his mind in an instant, and then Haldir was continuing smoothly, “But you must stay here tonight. How many are you?”

Legolas took a slight breath. This was the inevitable question, and the one that he had been dreading. “Eight,” he said calmly. “Myself, four Hobbits; and two Men, one of whom, Aragorn, is an Elf-friend of the folk of Westernesse.” He paused to let this register, and Haldir raised his eyebrows.

“The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lórien,” he said, “and he has the favour of the Lady.” He made no apology for having aimed an arrow at the head of the Elf-friend, and Legolas did not ask for one. He himself had been tempted to do the same in the past.

“All then is well,” Haldir said. “But you have yet spoken only of seven.”

Legolas found that he had unconsciously risen up on the balls of his feet, as if preparing for an attack. He forced himself to speak casually. “The eighth is a Dwarf,” he said.

“A Dwarf!” Haldir turned completely away from Frodo and stared at Legolas in shock. Both Rúmil and Orophin tensed. It took a moment for Haldir to recover enough to continue in the Common Speech. “That is not well,” he said stiffly, and Legolas had the distinct impression that he was wishing for the words to amplify this point. Perhaps Boromir could assist him, Legolas thought with some amusement. The Man had certainly proven himself adept at swearing in all forms of mortal tongues, from his native Gondorian to Rohirric to even a few words in the speech of the Wild Men. Legolas had learned more from listening to Boromir with a stubbed toe than he ever had from all his study in Mirkwood’s library.

But Haldir was frustrated in his wish, and only said, “We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days. They are not permitted in our land. I cannot allow him to pass.”

“But he is from the Lonely Mountain!” exclaimed a small voice, and they turned to see Frodo, standing quite forgotten in the middle of the talan. He faltered a bit under Haldir’s sharp gaze, but continued with determination. “One of Dain’s trusty people, and friendly to Elrond. Elrond himself chose him to be one of our companions, and he has been brave and faithful.”

Haldir regarded the Hobbit for a long moment, but Frodo lifted his chin and met his gaze, and Legolas smiled at the sight. Then Haldir bowed and said carefully, “Your pardon, Master Baggins.” And with that he turned back to Legolas and lapsed into rapid Sindarin.

“Is this true? Elrond chose one of the Naugrim to travel with you?”

“Yes,” Legolas answered. “He represents his kind in the Quest, of which you have had word.” And do not ask me to explain that logic. As if we had not enough trials on this journey.

“I suppose Lord Elrond had his reasons,” said Rúmil thoughtfully.

“Lord Elrond did not have to travel with him,” said Orophin, and Legolas was inclined to agree.

But he said only, “The Dwarf is a burden at times, yes. But Frodo Elf-friend spoke truly. He has been faithful on the Quest. He is brave, and a skilled warrior. There is no reason to deny him entrance.”

Haldir looked at him closely. “And would you grant passage to him through Mirkwood, my lord? Would you guide him through the hidden passages of your king’s chambers, and trust your secrets to him?”

Legolas met his gaze, and wondered again at this reference to secrets. But he thought of the light in Gimli’s eyes when he had fought the Orcs in Balin’s Tomb, and of the wracking grief that had taken him afterward. He thought of a Dwarf standing in the darkened passage of a cave and trying to hear Song in the stone, because an Elf suggested that it was possible. And he said quietly, “I would trust him with my life. I could not have survived Moria without him, and I owe him a debt that I cannot repay.” And he hoped that word of this admission would never make it back to the Dwarf.

Haldir studied him intently. Then he said slowly, “The word of a prince and a kinsman cannot be dismissed lightly. But you speak of something that has never been. No Dwarf may see the pillars of Caras Galadhon.”

“Then bind his eyes,” Legolas said impatiently. “But speak no more of this folly. The Fellowship must go on, and I will not leave him behind.”

Haldir exchanged glances with his brothers, then stepped back and sighed. He turned toward Frodo and spoke again in Westron, as if to signal his reluctance to debate any further. “Very good. We will do this, though it is against our liking. If Aragorn and Legolas will guard him, and answer for him, he shall pass; but he must go blindfold through Lothlórien.”

Legolas suppressed a sigh of relief at this. They had accepted his argument, and soon, he hoped, the Company would be able to settle for the night, and rest. He scarcely heard Haldir’s talk of the dangers that skirted the forest border – Orcs and wolves in recent days. But it was certain at least that the Fellowship could not stay on the ground any longer. Legolas thought longingly of the gentle curve of a living branch, and the luring melody of the forest song. But Haldir’s last words brought him up short.

“The four Hobbits shall climb up here and stay with us – we do not fear them! There is another talan in the next tree. There the others must take refuge. You, Legolas, must answer to us for them. Call us, if anything is amiss! And have an eye on that Dwarf!”

Have an eye on that Dwarf, Legolas repeated to himself in disgust as he started back down the ladder to the others. Oh yes, with the Hobbits on one flet with Haldir, he would be alone with the Men and the Dwarf on the other. And he dared not seem lax in his guard duties, if he was to keep Haldir from reconsidering their agreement. It was going to be a very long night.

*~*~*

Daro: stop

Perian: a Hobbit

Perianrim: a group of Hobbits

Periannath: Hobbits in general

A/N: Well, here we are. Coming soon, Chapter 11: Gimli climbs a tree.

Chapter 11: From Out of Knowledge

Gimli shifted his large axe on his back and settled his shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position. He was standing in a small cavern formed by the raised roots of a mallorn tree. This was not the best shelter that he could have wished for, but the cool earth close overhead was comforting. It lacked the solidity of good stone, but at least the overhanging roots blocked his view of the looming trees and far distant stars. Gimli did not mind trees as a rule, and he’d always appreciated the beauty of the constellations: Mahal’s Forge, Durin’s Hammer, the Axe-man and the Bellows.

But this forest was too strange, too silent: the trees were too large and the tiny cold pinpricks of the stars seemed to emphasize how very alone the Company was. Gimli felt better with the raised earth at his back and sides. At least here nothing could slip up on him from behind or drop down on him from the high branches.

It was entirely coincidental that the small cavern also hid him from view of the Elves overhead.

Legolas had vanished up one of the giant trees some time ago, taking Frodo and Sam with him. Gimli thought it had been at least ten minutes, but less than half an hour – it was difficult to feel the passage of time properly in these woods. Boromir was pacing back and forth in the small clearing: his shoulders were hunched and he stared at the ground as he muttered to himself in a low monotone. Merry was seated cross-legged at the base of one great tree trunk and eating an apple. Strangely enough, Pippin had not joined him. Aragorn was cleaning his dagger absently, occasionally glancing up at the tree that Legolas had climbed.

Gimli wished that Aragorn had not left it for the Elf to negotiate their passage. He had no illusions about the way that most Elves regarded Dwarves, and this border guard was haughty and condescending enough to make Thranduil seem warm and open-minded. Legolas had translated a small portion of their conversation before he had vanished up the tree, and Gimli bristled at the memory. They had threatened to shoot the Fellowship, and passed it off as a joke. They were obstructing Frodo’s quest and Gimli had no doubts about their reaction when they learned that a Dwarf traveled with the Company.

He did not entirely trust Legolas not to simply abandon him here. Oh, the Elf had been loyal enough in Moria, where he had been disoriented and dependent on Gimli’s expertise, but he was clearly comfortable here in these Elven woods. Who was to say that he would not take the easiest path and agree to leave Gimli behind? Or consign him to the Elves’ dungeons? Balin had always been one to do justice to a good story, and the tale of his imprisonment in the halls of the Wood-elf king had grown over the years in the Lonely Mountain.

And yet… Glóin had never publicly contradicted Balin’s stories, but he did tell Gimli in private not to believe all of them. “They were cellars, really, not so much dungeons. I don’t think the Elves would know a proper dungeon if Durin himself built one for them. And they didn’t bring in spiders to torment us, or feed us on rotten rice and well water. Actually the food was quite good. And I’ve never had better wine. But they did try to rob us, and they brought an army to lay siege to us after Smaug’s defeat.” His father had paused then, and rubbed the side of his nose with one thick finger. “Elves are funny folk. They’re good people, for the most part – at least they fight against the Enemy, same as us. Elrond was very helpful to us, though of course he’s only half Elf. Full Elves are, well, they’re something else. Too tall and skinny, so you’d think they’d blow over in a high wind, but they’re strong too. And they sing the most maddening songs, and are the flightiest things you ever saw, but then they’ll get very still and dangerous, too, when the mood is on them. You never can be sure what they’ll do. It’s best not to get involved with them, if you can avoid it. They think differently than we do, and they don’t care about things the way we do. Don’t trust them. Don’t rely on them. They have their world, and we have ours, and it’s best not to go mixing the two together.”

But here Gimli was, mixing in as Elvish a forest as could be imagined, and even now his fate might be decided by the son of Thranduil. If that spoiled princeling tries anything I’ll hit him with my axe. But surely Aragorn would not let Gimli be left behind. He had better well not let the Elf abandon me. I’ll hit him, too.

Gimli was pulled from these thoughts by a slight shifting in the weight of soil and roots over his head. Ever sensitive to changes in the earth, he immediately tensed. He looked up at the tangled roots and crouched slightly, ready to roll out from under them at a moment’s warning. There was no real stability here, and he dared not risk a cave in.

But the roof did not fall, and after a moment there was a scramble along the side of the bank and Pippin jumped down in front of him. Gimli blinked and relaxed.

“You ought to be more careful, young Hobbit,” he said. “This bank won’t take much weight.”

Pippin started. “I didn’t see you there, Gimli. I’m sorry.” But he spoke perfunctorily, already turning away from the Dwarf.

Gimli frowned. There was something wrong. Pippin’s voice was dull, his movements subdued. And, a clear warning signal: Merry had now finished the last of the apples and was starting on their remaining cheese rations and Pippin had not made the slightest effort to claim his share.

“Are you all right, Pippin?” He asked the question casually, but shot the youth a keen glance to see his reaction.

Pippin shrugged, his back to Gimli. “Oh, yes. Tired, I suppose.” He started away, walking toward the edge of the small clearing.

Gimli straightened in alarm. “Hold now! Where are you going?”

The Hobbit did not look back. “For a walk. I am going for a walk.”

Gimli left his small shelter and started after him. “These woods are perilous. You ought not to go wandering alone.”

Pippin did not stop. “I’ll be fine.” His voice seemed oddly strained, thin and choked in his throat.

Gimli grabbed his arm to stop him, catching him at the shadowed edge of the clearing, and Pippin whirled suddenly around, trying to jerk free. “Leave me alone!”

Gimli saw Aragorn glance over at them, and he shook his head slightly, trying to indicate that he had things under control. The Man nodded and looked back up at the branches overhead. Gimli lowered his voice, aware that Merry and Boromir were also nearby. “You cannot go running off into the woods by yourself. It’s dangerous.”

Pippin made a strangled noise, like a half-swallowed laugh. But he made no reply, and only pulled harder to get free. Gimli tightened his grip on the thin bicep. “No one, not even Aragorn, can go exploring the forest by himself right now. We don’t know what’s out there.”

He was afraid that he’d have to bruise the Hobbit to make him listen, but Pippin abruptly stopped struggling and stood still, his head bowed and his narrow shoulders heaving. Gimli waited a moment and then slowly released him. Pippin took a shaky breath but did not look up. “I’m sorry, Gimli. I know this isn’t . . . isn’t a Hobbit walking party. I just, I just needed . . .” but he did not say what he needed, and swallowed hard.

Gimli shook his head, not sure he’d heard properly. “A Hobbit what? Why would you think –”

Pippin threw up his hands. “It’s what he said! By the well! He said it wasn’t a Hobbit walking party, and I knew that, I did, he didn’t need to tell me!” The boy’s voice was shrill, his eyes bright with unshed tears, and Gimli was at a complete loss. But Merry was now looking over with concern, and even Boromir had paused in his pacing. Gimli hesitated and then put a hand gently on Pippin’s shoulder, guiding him away from the forest edge and toward the relative privacy of his shelter.

“Hush, now,” he said awkwardly. “Just take a few deep breaths and think on for a bit. Who said this? What well?”

Pippin’s chest and shoulders were shaking, but he did breathe slowly for a minute before speaking, and he seemed to regain some control. He sat down under the earthen bank and drew his knees up to his chest. His voice was muffled when he finally spoke. “Gandalf. At the well in Moria, after I dropped the stone, he said that it wasn’t a Hobbit walking party, and that I could take first watch, but then he relieved me, and then the Orcs came, and –” His voice choked off, and he blinked rapidly.

Gimli remembered then. Strange, with all that had happened during those long days, he had nearly forgotten Pippin’s stone. But surely the boy couldn’t think that…

“What’s this foolishness, then?” he spoke gruffly, but tried to make his eyes twinkle the way Gandalf’s had. The effort was wasted, however, because Pippin did not look up. “So you were curious about a well and dropped a pebble to see how deep it was. I’ve done that and more, on occasion. Once I dropped a bit of flint down an air shaft, only my uncle Óin was down there, and it hit his head. Knocked him cold for three hours, and he had the nastiest lump for days. My father wore out his birch rod on my britches, and then I had to clean Óin’s forge every day for a week, and I’m sure that he deliberately used the very worst quality iron during that time, so there was a tremendous amount of waste slag . . .”

But Pippin clearly was not listening. Gimli faltered and fell silent. His words seemed terribly inadequate for the weight of grief and guilt that the young Hobbit carried. There was a long pause, and Gimli settled down to sit next to Pippin, his hands on his knees. He felt the damp earth cool against his back, and heard the faint creak and shift of the living roots overhead. He breathed deeply and tasted the scent of rich soil and loam and the crisp tang of the winter night.

“Pippin, look at me,” he said finally, and the words seemed to echo in his mind: a strange sense of doubling, as if he had been in this moment before. But Pippin did look up, and Gimli shook off the memory and spoke firmly. “You did not cause Gandalf’s death. Your stone had nothing to do with naught. The Balrog would have found us in any case. And Gandalf, being the stubborn old wizard that he was, would have insisted on fighting it alone. There was nothing you could do, nothing any of us could do, to prevent it.”

Pippin shook his head, and Gimli saw the tear tracks in the grime on his face. “You don’t know that. And the others, they think it was me.”

“What!” Gimli was shocked. “No they don’t.”

“Yes they do! Merry won’t even look at me –”

Gimli frowned. “What are you talking about? He’s been with you every minute since we came off the Dale!”

Pippin drew a gasping breath, and his chest heaved. “No he hasn’t. He hasn’t talked to me, or smiled once, and when Sam went up the tree with Frodo he opened the food pack without even asking me –”

Gimli threw up his hands. “When was the last time you needed to be asked to share food? And you can’t expect him to act normally – he’s lost a friend too. Give him time.”

Pippin hardly seemed to hear him. “Merry never breaks into Sam’s pack. Not ever. He says it’s dishonest, when everyone in the Fellowship needs the rations. So he always lets me do it, and then he just helps out, to keep it even, you know. But he didn’t wait for me, or even seem to care that I was there.”

“That doesn’t mean that –”

But Pippin rushed on. “And Legolas –”

That did it. Gimli reached for his throwing axe. “What has that Elf said to you? I’ll kill him!”

Pippin stopped, and looked at him with wide eyes. “He didn’t say anything to me! But at the well, when the stone dropped, he . . .”

Gimli had another flash of memory, this time of the Elf standing at the edge of the well, gripping Pippin by the wrist and nearly pulling him off the ground. He remembered the fear in Legolas’ eyes, the fine wired tension that had run through every line of his body. And he sighed.

“That doesn’t mean that he thinks you brought the Balrog on us. You just . . . startled him, that’s all. Elves don’t handle surprises well.”

Pippin shook his head again. “That isn’t what Frodo says. He says that an Elf almost always knows what he’s doing. I know you don’t like him, Gimli, but Legolas isn’t as flighty as you make him out to be. He wouldn’t grab me like that unless he knew I had done something dangerous.”

Gimli looked down, slowly turning his small axe in his hands. Then he carefully set it aside. It was a moment before he could phrase his answer in a way that did not sound too biased. “No, the Elf isn’t one to jump like that normally. But you must understand, Master Took, he was under a terrible strain down there in the caves. Elves aren’t used to being underground like Dwarves or Hobbits.” He deliberately refrained from elaborating further on Elven weaknesses.

But Pippin was looking at him skeptically. “We’d only been in the mines for a day. I don’t think he’d lose control that quickly.”

This was something that Aragorn had said, but Gimli had not given it thought at the time. Now, considering it again, he admitted that it did seem strange for Legolas to change his behavior so radically in so short a time. He remembered the Elf’s fear before the three archways, and the horrible sense of dread that even he, Gimli, had felt there. He saw Legolas standing at the foot of a broken stair with head bowed, and heard again the words, It draws nearer. We have tarried too long. And Gimli thought that he understood at last.

He took a deep breath and looked straight at Pippin and said, “It wasn’t just the mines, or the dark, or being away from his precious trees. The Elf . . . can sense things. I think that he knew the Balrog was there, maybe from the first moment we set foot in Moria. Maybe he didn’t know what it was, but he still felt it. And he knew it was coming.” Gimli repressed a shudder, remembering the Shadow, and the roar of flame, and the terrible resonant ache of Power. To have sensed that, drawing closer and closer for days and nights on end . . . how had the Elf borne it? How could anyone have borne it without going mad? Gimli remembered Legolas’ near panic when they had been blocked by the gap in their path on that first day, it seemed a lifetime ago. And he remembered his own amusement at the Elf’s all-too-obvious fear. There was a sour taste in his mouth.

Pippin was watching him. “You mean that Legolas felt the Balrog before I dropped the stone?” He hesitated, seeming to consider that. “But even so, maybe it wouldn’t have found us. Gandalf could have avoided it.”

Gimli sighed. “Maybe he could have. I don’t know. But whether he could or not, his ability was not hampered by you. I’m as good at following echoes as any Dwarf you’ll ever meet, Master Took, and I tell you now that I’d not have been able to track our position from that one dropped stone. I’m sorry Pippin, but you can’t claim the responsibility all on your own. Maybe Gandalf should have chosen more wisely, and I should not have led him to go to Moria.” I was so blind, so greedy and blind. I wanted to believe in Khazad-dûm, and I made Gandalf pay the price. “There is ample blame to share, if you go looking for it.”

Pippin still seemed doubtful. “But the others, Boromir and Frodo –”

“Enough!” Gimli cried, and pushed to his feet. His knee popped as he did so. “Master Took, I have used logic and talked till I am tired, and still you refuse to see reason. If you do not stop this pointless wallowing now and start behaving like a proper Hobbit should, I will have to resort to my axe.”

Pippin looked startled, but smiled weakly when Gimli hefted his large axe. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“No?” Gimli stopped to consider this. “Well, you should be. I’m terribly frightening.” He scowled fiercely and made his eyebrows bristle. Pippin smiled again, with a bit more warmth.

Then he looked down and trailed one finger in aimless patterns through the loose soil. “You really think that Legolas felt the Balrog even before we got to the well?”

Gimli shifted his weight. He’d have given mithril to avoid answering. But Pippin was looking hopeful, and there was no escape. Durin and the Seven Fathers! Gimli swore under his breath. Then he cleared his throat and spoke firmly and clearly. “Master Took, if you ever breathe one word of this to the Elf I will personally string you up by the hair of your feet.” Pippin looked suitably impressed by this threat, though one corner of his mouth quirked. Gimli continued. “The Elf warned us, Gandalf and me, that there was danger coming on the first night we spent in Moria, and I believe that he felt it long before we reached your well. He senses things that we can’t, and even in the Mines he had his uses. He was terrified, but he never lost his wits or forgot his duty, and he fought bravely and with skill.” Gimli remembered how, in the aftermath of Gandalf’s fall, Legolas had stayed hidden while the Company fled. He had been willing to stay, even in the dark stone passage still resonant with the demon’s malice, rather risk the Fellowship. And Gimli swallowed. “He tried to tell us. He could hardly speak of it, but he tried to warn us. And maybe, if we had listened, we could have found another way. Gandalf might not have died.”

Pippin was watching him. Gimli fell silent and looked at him. A long moment passed, and Gimli felt it stretch in the timeless forest. Then Gimli shook himself and lifted his axe again. “So are you convinced, Master Hobbit, or shall I instruct you further?”

Pippin smiled shakily and got to his feet. He bowed to Gimli and said, “Thank you, Master Dwarf. Your axe will not be necessary. You’ve done a good job with your words.” He hesitated, and then added, “I wonder what Legolas would say, if he could hear you?” And with that he backed quickly out of the cavern, then turned and ran to snatch the last bit of dried meat from Merry’s hand.

Gimli watched him go. Pippin was still far too pale, and his antics had a forced quality to them, as if he were putting on a show. But at least he was interacting with the others, and Gimli saw Merry protest as Pippin pushed past him to Sam’s pack. The young Took said something over his shoulder even as he rummaged deeper in the bag. His cousin smiled briefly and sat down again.

Then Gimli looked past them and saw that Aragorn was no longer looking up at the flet above them, but talking to the Elf that stood at his side. Legolas had returned.

All the suspicion and doubt that he had felt came flooding back as he watched them. Aragorn did not seem to be protesting anything, but only listened to Legolas and nodded occasionally. Gimli narrowed his eyes.

The Hobbits had risen to their feet, watching. Pippin was still chewing on his strip of dried meat. Boromir had stopped his pacing and was also looking at them. Gimli came out from beneath his overhang.

Aragorn finished the conversation and turned toward them. Legolas went to the pile of packs at the base of the tree and began sorting through them. “The Elves of Lothlórien have offered us shelter for the night,” Aragorn announced. “There is a large talan, a platform, in this tree. The Hobbits will stay there. Another flet is in a different mallorn,” he glanced at Legolas, and the Elf indicated a tree about a third of the way around the clearing, “and the rest of the Company will sleep there.”

Gimli was not sure how to take this information. It seemed that they had no choice but to trust the Elves for tonight, yet he was not at all convinced that this plan was their best option. But before he could object Boromir spoke. “Why are we to be split up? The Hobbits will be defenseless.”

Aragorn looked at him. “The Elves will stay with them. They’ll have the best defense imaginable.”

Boromir crossed his arms over his chest. “We know nothing of these Elves. We haven’t even seen them! They’ve interrupted our journey, and the first thing that they did was to separate the Ring-bearer from the Company. How can we trust them?”

Aragorn started to speak, but he was interrupted by a clear, cold voice. Legolas had straightened, and he looked every inch the Elven prince as he stared at the Man of Gondor. “I have spoken with the march-warden and his guard. They bear us no ill will, and you, Boromir, would do well to act with courtesy while you are a guest in this land.”

Boromir met his eyes, but when Legolas fell silent and continued to stare at him, he dropped his gaze and a muscle of his jaw tensed. “It is not discourteous to act with caution.”

“No,” Aragorn said. “But I have journeyed here before, Boromir, and I know that these people can be trusted. The Hobbits will be safe.” He turned away, but as he passed Gimli heard him mutter, “They may be safer, perhaps, than they would be with us.”

Gimli wondered at that, but Aragorn had joined Legolas beside the packs and was looking at them. “We cannot carry all of this up to the flets. Some of it will have to be buried here for the night.”

Legolas nodded. “I’ve pulled out Sam’s pack, and yours. Those should go up. The others can stay.”

Gimli remembered then, and started to protest, but the Elf glanced at him and pulled another bag from the pile. He set it next to Aragorn’s and said quietly, “The Book of Mazarbul should also go up.” Gimli stared at him in surprise, but Legolas met his eyes defiantly, as if daring him to say anything. After a moment Gimli blinked and looked away. He remembered his earlier suspicions, and heard his father’s voice again. They don’t care about things the way we do. His cheeks were hot with shame.

Aragorn’s mouth was hanging open in shock. But he closed it after a moment, and managed to say evenly, “Yes, of course. Merry and Pippin can take Sam’s pack up. I’ll hide the others.”

This took rather longer than one might have thought. Even though Sam’s bag had been lightened considerably by the consumption of most of the food, it was still heavy and awkward. Merry and Pippin squabbled over who would carry it, and ended up by unpacking their own bags and dividing Sam’s between them. This took some time, and the process revealed a good deal about Sam’s organizational abilities and priorities. (“A trowel? Why would he bring a trowel?” “I guess it would be useful for digging roots, wouldn’t it?” “We left in the middle of winter! What roots was he going to dig?” “Maybe he wanted to start a garden when we got to Mordor.”)

Legolas left them to it and climbed quickly up into the second mallorn tree. After a few minutes another silvery ladder came floating down, and Boromir caught the end. He gave it some experimental tugs, but it held fast.

By the time Legolas re-joined them on the ground Merry and Pippin had finished with Sam’s pack and were regarding the ladder that Frodo and Sam had climbed. Merry fingered the rope that fashioned it, while Pippin stood with head back and stared up the length that twisted and swayed with the faint breeze, and vanished into the shadowed branches far above. Gimli followed his gaze. He felt slightly queasy.

But Merry turned down all offers of assistance. “It isn’t that different from the ladders we use for apple picking in Buckland. Just a bit higher, that’s all.”

“Right,” Pippin said, though he was noticeably lacking in enthusiasm.

Merry grasped the rope ladder firmly and began to climb. After a moment Pippin followed him. The addition of Pippin’s weight made the ladder sway and twist alarmingly, and both Hobbits clutched it with white-knuckled grips. Boromir steadied the base and watched them with concern. But they adapted quickly, and were soon climbing again. Their overly large feet seemed to help as they searched for each rung that swung with the rope away from their weight.

By the time that Gimli was convinced that the Hobbits would not fall, Aragorn had finished burying their packs in a shallow trench covered with a deep drift of leaves. Even in the night cloaked forest the leaves shone a faint gold.

“Will that be sufficient?” Gimli asked. “Won’t the Orcs be able to smell them?”

Aragorn shook his head. “If Orcs manage to penetrate these woods they will be running panicked and pursued. They won’t have time to scent anything.”

With that Aragorn grabbed his own light pack and started toward the tree where Legolas and Boromir were waiting. Boromir was tense, fingering the rope ladder and glancing repeatedly up to where it vanished into the mallorn’s branches. By contrast Legolas looked perfectly at ease as he leaned back against the tree trunk. Indeed, he seemed a bit too relaxed, and his open eyes had a glazed look to them.

Aragorn grinned and bumped Legolas’ shoulder as he passed, pushing the Elf back a step. Legolas’ head snapped up, and he straightened abruptly. Aragorn muttered something that Gimli did not hear, but Legolas shot the Man a cutting look that was easy enough to interpret.

Then Aragorn grasped the ladder and began to climb. He weighed more than the Hobbits, but seemed more accustomed to the task, and he did not hesitate as the rope twisted beneath him. Boromir and Gimli exchanged glances. Then the Man of Gondor took a deep breath and adjusted his shield again on his back. He seized the rope and set one foot in a rung about three feet off the ground. It immediately swung away from him as he lifted himself up, and the weight of his shield and sword fell back, so that he was left dangling with his feet nearly level with his hands.

With an effort he managed to pull himself vertical, but the ladder swung again as he reached for the next step, and he grasped it tightly to keep from falling. Legolas seized the bottom of the rope and pulled it straight. “You would find it easier,” he gasped, “if you left your shield behind. The weight puts you off balance.”

Boromir did not reply. He pushed one arm back impatiently to settle his shield from where it had slipped on his shoulders and began to climb again. With Legolas holding the rope he was able to make better progress, and soon had reached a considerable height.

That left Gimli. He took a deep breath and tipped his head back to look again at the distant tree branches. He was strongly aware of the weight of his own pack, axes, chain mail and other gear as he approached the flimsy rope. But it had held for Boromir, and Legolas was still holding it steady. Without looking at the Elf he grasped the ladder tightly and began to climb.

He immediately saw why Boromir had had such trouble. The rope was strong and light, and it swayed easily with every step he took. He had not been climbing long when it suddenly gave a great lurch and swung dangerously. Gimli nearly fell, and clutched the woven rungs close to his chest. “What in Mahal’s name!” he swore, and locked his arms around the rope. After a few moments it stopped twisting and he dared a glance down.

Legolas had let go of the rope. He was standing at the base of the tree, clearly preparing to climb up, and he looked up at Gimli with poorly concealed amusement. “What are you doing, Elf?” Gimli demanded. “I could have been killed!”

“You are less than ten feet off the ground, Master Dwarf.” Legolas said.

It was true. Gimli turned his face toward the tree trunk and closed his eyes, swallowing hard. The rope was still, but the world seemed to spin sickeningly. Without looking again at the awful distance he said, “You’ve no call to be upsetting the balance. Just because you –”

“Shall I stay here and hold the ladder still for you all night, Master Dwarf? If you speed your climb you might reach the talan by dawn.”

Gimli growled beneath his breath and reached for the next rung. “You can practice patience, Master Elf. No one forced you to go last.”

Suddenly the rope swung again, though less dramatically this time. Gimli closed his eyes and swore loudly. “Will you stop that!”

“Do you want me to hold the rope for you or not, Master Dwarf?”

“I want nothing from you, Elf, except that you stop upsetting the blasted ladder! I don’t need your help!”

“Very well.” The tension of the rope changed beneath his hands as Legolas released it. Gimli took a deep breath and began to climb again. It swung more freely without the Elf’s weight as a stabilizer, but he soon found a rhythm in the swaying balance and he climbed steadily. He kept his eyes fixed on the tree trunk directly in front of him and did not look down.

There was movement at his side then, and a soft voice said, “You improve by the minute, Master Dwarf. Perhaps you should dwell in the trees more often.” Gimli shot a quick glance to the left and saw Legolas looking back at him. The Elf was hanging from a tree limb a few feet away. He smiled at Gimli and then swung himself up onto the branch. Then he leaped easily through the air to catch another branch that grew a quarter of the way around the curve of the great tree bole.

Gimli watched him for a moment. Legolas used the tree branches as much as he could, but they were spaced widely apart and at times he seemed to actually scale the smooth trunk itself, digging his fingers into the bark and bracing his feet against it. There had to be some ribbing to the soles of the Elf’s thin boots to allow him to do that.

Legolas had long vanished from sight when the shift in the ladder’s tension told Gimli that the Men had stopped climbing. A few minutes later he reached the end and pulled himself gratefully up onto a large wooden platform in the tree branches. It was open and completely exposed save for the surrounding tree branches and one small woven screen that could be adjusted to block the wind. But it was level and solid, and did not sway beneath his feet. Gimli breathed a silent prayer of thanks and stretched cautiously. His back and shoulders ached, and his hands seemed to be permanently fixed in position from grasping the rope.

Boromir was also massaging his fingers, and he was bent slightly beneath his shield. But Aragorn was seated easily on the smooth boards. He looked perfectly comfortable, and had unbuckled Andúril and laid the sword at his side. Legolas was inspecting several large covered baskets that rested near the center of the platform. Gimli looked over sharply as he caught the scent of roasted meat.

“What is that?”

“Food, Master Dwarf.” Aragorn said. “The Elves have left us some provisions.” He rose in one smooth motion and walked over to the edge of the flet. He began to pull up the ladder.

Gimli’s stomach abruptly reminded him that he had not eaten for several hours, and he’d been exerting himself considerably in that time. He followed Boromir toward the baskets. Legolas was laying out roast venison, apples, several wafers of some sort of bread, sausage, two pastries, a bottle of wine and, incredibly, some folded linen napkins. He looked at the feast and one corner of his mouth quirked in a slight grimace.

“Will you look at that,” Boromir breathed. “It’s a meal fit for a king.”

“Or a prince,” Aragorn said, and Legolas glared at him.

“More than that,” Gimli said. “It’s a meal fit for a Hobbit. We’d best eat quickly, before they come to claim it.”

“Do not be concerned about that,” Legolas said. He was looking through the branches toward the other mallorn. “They have their own. They will not be hungry tonight.” He looked again at the food before him and muttered under his breath, “By Elbereth they had better well not be. I’ll string Haldir up by his ears.”

Gimli gave a snort of laughter which he quickly turned into a cough when Legolas looked at him. Boromir insisted on standing for a moment to face the west before eating, and Aragorn seconded him. Legolas stood respectfully to the side while they did this, but Gimli sat down. He was tired, his hands and back ached, and the Dwarves had their own customs at meat. He murmured a quiet prayer of thanks with the traditional blessing for the host, and privately wondered what Mahal would think of giving a Dwarven blessing to an Elf. He omitted the wish that “their beards grow ever longer,” but could not think of a good phrase to substitute. “May their arrows always fly true”? Legolas at least didn’t seem to need the Valar’s help with that. “May their glow never go out”? Now he was getting silly. Valar, he was so tired.

The others appeared to share his exhaustion. Boromir and Aragorn soon joined him, and Legolas sat cross-legged a short distance away. He claimed not to be hungry, but when Aragorn suggested that they could call the Elves and tell them that the food didn’t meet with Legolas’ approval the Elf glared at him and snatched up a piece of venison and a wafer of bread. Gimli did not touch the bread, which looked something like cram. He had heard strange stories of Elven waybread, and he had no wish to fall captive to any spell that might be laid upon it. But he ate heartily of the rest of the food. Boromir and Aragorn also ate quickly. But Legolas only nibbled at his food, and sat and stared into space for long stretches of time with it forgotten in his hand.

The meal was soon over and Aragorn wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out to sleep. For the first time that Gimli could remember there was no discussion of watches for the night. Aragorn seemed ready to trust the Elves to guard them. Boromir was less likely to leave their safety in the hands of strangers, but after sitting for a short time with nothing to do but listen to the faint rustling of the leaves he gave it up and lay down under his heavy cloak.

Gimli settled his gear in the exact center of the platform and positioned his pack as a pillow. But he could find no comfortable position. He was painfully aware of how very high up he was, and the thin boards seemed a poor protection from the tremendous drop beneath his feet. He felt horribly exposed on all sides, and he thought about the mysterious Elves that might even now be hidden in the branches, watching him.

Strangely enough, Legolas made no preparations to rest. Gimli would have expected him to be the first to sleep, for he was clearly comfortable here. And the Elf had virtually fallen asleep on his feet several times already this night. But now he perched easily in the crook of a branch that hung low over the platform. He drew his three remaining arrows and inspected them carefully.

It was quiet. Gimli could hear the Men breathing in slow rhythm and the faint dry rustle of the leaves overhead. His eyes burned and he ached with weariness, but sleep eluded him. Legolas drew one arrow slowly along his hand, turning the smooth shaft and lightly fingering the golden brown fletching at the end. It seemed a long time before he set it down and selected another.

Gimli watched him simply because there was nothing else to look at. Finally the Elf completed his examination of the arrows and paused for a moment. Gimli thought that he would now go to sleep, but instead he drew his bow and began running his hands over its smooth length. Gimli fancied that he could hear the brush of Legolas’ fingers in the silence.

“What are you doing?” He heard the question, but it was a moment before he realized that he’d spoken it.

Legolas did not look up. “I’ve cracked my bow. I must repair it.”

“Now?”

“When else would you have me do it, Master Dwarf? When the Orcs are upon us?” The Elf’s voice was clipped.

Gimli stiffened. “I think we can manage. Our safety is not wholly dependent upon you, Master Elf.”

Legolas paused. He sat still for a long moment, looking at the bow in his hands. Then he shook his head and said quietly, “I did not mean that. I am . . . I am weary. I did not think before I spoke.”

Gimli stared at him in amazement. This was the closest he had ever heard the Elf come to an apology. After a moment he realized that his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it abruptly. He cast about for something to say. “I didn’t . . . that is, I only meant . . .” he heard his own awkward speech and stopped. He took a deep breath and then said in a rush, “Your bow would be missed. The Fellowship is stronger because you are with us.”

Legolas looked up at him then, and he saw surprise in the Elf’s eyes. He flushed with embarrassment. But Legolas did not take advantage of Gimli’s weakness. He smiled slightly and seemed about to speak, when suddenly he stiffened and leaped to his feet. This was something of an accomplishment, as the Elf was still perched in his tree branch rather than on the platform. The movement was nearly too fast for Gimli see, but he thought that Legolas pushed with his folded legs so that he sprang straight up several feet in the air and landed lightly down again to stand where he’d been seated only an instant before. Gimli blinked.

The Elf was standing straight on his tree limb and staring intently through the branches toward the ground. He was very still, but he clutched his bow in a white-knuckled grip. Gimli got slowly to his feet. His back and legs were still stiff from the climb. “What is it?” he whispered.

Legolas shook his head abruptly and motioned for quiet. He slipped along his branch and vanished into the surrounding foliage. Gimli waited for a long moment, straining his senses. He could hear nothing, but his instincts were on high alert. Then suddenly Legolas reappeared, dropping straight down from a different branch to land lightly on the platform next to Gimli. Gimli started, but Legolas only looked at him. His eyes were very bright. “There is a large party of Orcs approaching the Nimrodel. The Enemy has come to Lothlórien.”

*~*~*

Cram: Waybread made by the Men of Dale. Mentioned in the Hobbit and the Lothlórien chapter of the Fellowship of the Ring.

A/N: So, fourteen pages to get up a tree. Coming soon, Chapter 12: Hopefully we get down from the tree. And maybe, in the memorable words of Theresa Green, we’ll get some kinky blindfold games.

A/N:  This chapter in particular contains some deviations from J.R.R. Tolkien’s original intent.  But I hope that they will be seen as appropriate in the context of this story, and I believe that the Master would not mind too much.

Tolkien gives a fairly detailed description of the blindfold scene, and certainly doesn’t need any help from me.  I’ve expanded a bit with my own dialogue and action, but large sections of spoken dialogue are entirely his.  Please see the Lothlórien chapter, pages 388-389 of the movie covered Ballantine Books edition of The Fellowship of the Ring for the real version.

Chapter 12:  To See Clearly

Legolas could hear the Orcs as they crashed through the forest, but more, he felt them.  The vast mellyrn seemed too great to trouble over this passing darkness, yet a faint tremor ran through the wood.  There was not the disruption in the tree-song that he would have heard in Mirkwood, but unease welled in the dark hollows of the forest, and pulsed to the time of heavy boots that pounded the soft earth.

Then the silvered tone of the Nimrodel ran harsh, and the long gentle grief of ages past was sullied by the clash of steel and iron.  The Orcs plunged through the healing waters without pause, and he heard their guttural curses as the pure stream touched their skin.  Does it burn?  Does it hurt them, even as they would hurt it?  Some distant, savage part of him hoped that it did.

“Where is the ladder?”  Gimli spoke in a fierce whisper.  Legolas looked at him, and he saw his own need to fight reflected in the Dwarf’s eyes.  Gimli had been moving as one half crippled by stiffened back and hands, but now he caught up his large axe and held it easily, all weariness forgotten.  “We must get down there!”

Legolas regarded him with wonder.  The Dwarf was raging, ready to abandon his safe haven and confront a hundred Orcs with no weapon but his axe, and yet this was not his home.  These woods were alien to him, and he had shown his discomfort in a dozen ways since their arrival, but still he was eager to fight for their protection.  Legolas had understood his rage and grief in Moria, when the destruction of his heritage and kin made him passion-blind and he sought vengeance, but this was different.  Gimli had no tie to this Elvish land: no Dwarf had ever been welcomed here.  And yet he rose to its defense as readily as if it were his own home.  And Legolas thought fleetingly that he would be proud to fight alongside the Dwarf.

But duty was stronger than vengeance, and more than the defense of Lothlórien.  There would be no victory if they saved the Elven wood but sacrificed Frodo’s mission.  So he shook his head slightly, and whispered, “We cannot go down.  There are far too many of them, and we dare not draw them here, to the Hobbits’ hiding place.”

Gimli glowered at him and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  But he lowered his axe, and did not protest this logic.  “It ill-suits me, to sit in a tree house and do nothing while the Enemy tramps past.”

“It ill-suits me as well,” Legolas murmured, turning away to scan the surrounding tree limbs.  “Perhaps we need not merely sit.”

With that he launched himself up into the branches and climbed quickly through the canopy.  He was high enough that the tree limbs were slender and light around him, and they bent in graceful curves beneath his swift feet.  He could feel the strong life that flowed in these ancient trees, quicker and more vibrant here, so close to the stars.  It swelled around him, buoying him up and beating with the swift tempo of his run.  The living branches flexed and sprang up again as he swept soundlessly through them.  He climbed and swung from one to another, and felt half drunk with the sheer sensual joy of the cool wood’s texture in his hands and the brush of golden leaf against his skin.

He swept through the crisp winter night, and the cold air seared his lungs and burned through his body.  He felt the power of this place, and he longed to fly faster, faster – to leap up and catch the stars themselves, to cry challenge to the Orcs and see them fall, ruined by the terrible beauty of Ilúvatar’s creation.

It was then, as the clamor of Orc voices grew stronger and he reached the lessening of the canopy caused by Nimrodel’s course, that Haldir stopped him.  The March-warden appeared silently at his side even as he landed lightly on a branch directly before the approaching horde.  Legolas had no time even to startle, for Haldir caught his arm and swung him around so that his back was against the smooth tree trunk.  His quiver dug sharply between his shoulder blades.

“What are you doing?” the guard captain hissed, and Legolas could feel the tension that ran through him and threaded his voice with steel.

Legolas rolled his shoulder in a smooth, swift motion, and Haldir’s hand fell away.  “The Orcs have crossed the Nimrodel.  We must keep them away from the Fellowship.”

“I know what the Orcs have done,” Haldir said, and his eyes were murderous.  “They will pay dearly for it.  But you, my lord, are not part of this game.  Your task is elsewhere.”

Legolas held his eyes, and read the captain’s anger, and his fear.  “My task is to guard my companions and to fight the Enemy.  I will go with you.”

The Orcs were very close now, sweeping between the trees far below and churning the soft earth to mud.  Their progress was marked by the growing discord of the Song: the slash of weapons against the mellyrn trunks and the grating snarl of Black Speech.  Both Legolas and Haldir flinched from the pain of that harsh tongue.

Haldir stepped close.  Orcs rarely looked up – they tended to stare straight ahead or at the ground as a rule, and in any case the Elves were well hidden in the canopy.  But Orcs had excellent hearing, and there could be no risk of detection, for they could climb trees perfectly well.  So Haldir took no chances that they might hear him, but spoke in Legolas’ ear.  “Your assistance would be most welcome, my lord, but we cannot risk it.  Please, I know how to defend my home.  None of those below will escape.  Go back and guard your companions.  Keep watch on the Dwarf.”

Legolas could not move, pressed as he was against the tree bole, but he turned his head to look at Haldir.  “You cannot be serious.  The Dwarf is not a threat!”

Haldir moved back slightly, but his face was set and his eyes were as chips of ice.  “That is not for me to decide.  I must protect my people from all intruders, even as you would protect yours.  I trusted you to keep watch over him.  And if you will not, then I will send Rúmil to do so while we lead the Orcs astray, and our agreement is ended.”

Legolas swallowed.  He said softly, in a breath scarce above the whisper of the leaves, “He was willing to fight for you.”  Haldir said nothing, but held his gaze.  Finally Legolas hissed and pushed the March-warden back.  “Go then!  And pray that the Enemy has no more sense than do we, who weaken our defenses by needlessly guarding against our allies.”

He turned and slipped back through the canopy, moving more slowly this time.  Behind him he could hear the cries of Haldir and his brothers, and the excited grunt and clamor of the Orcs as they were led away deeper into the wood.

Aragorn and Boromir were awake when he returned to the talan.  Gimli was pacing a very short path in the middle of the flet, careful to keep far away from the platform edge.  He was muttering under his breath in a steady growl.  But he stopped and all three looked up expectantly when Legolas dropped silently onto the flet.

“The border patrol is leading the Orcs into ambush,” Legolas said shortly.  “They will not return.”

Aragorn looked at him in surprise.  “Are you not going with them?”

“No.”  Legolas bit off the word and stalked across the platform to resume his seat in the tree branches.  He was being childish, he knew, and some part of him cringed to think what his father would say of this display of temper.  But the greater part did not care.  He was walking on the fine edge of exhaustion, and all his frustration and grief was wound into tension that knotted his shoulders and clenched his stomach.  He wanted to fight.  He needed to fight, to run, to do something against this evil that dogged their steps and befouled the golden wood.  In all likelihood these Orcs were of the same breed that had hunted them in Moria.  That had seen Mithrandir fall.

But he could do nothing.  He must needs sit and guard his companions.  And a very effective watch I shall keep, too, with a cracked bow and three arrows in my quiver.  But he was not guarding them from the Orcs, he knew, for those were moving ever further from them, and already the song of the nearby trees was as slow and peaceful as if the Orcs had never troubled them.  No, he was expected to stand guard against the Fellowship, or at least one member of it.  The blind stupidity of it, the arrogant assumption of trust and prejudice, fear and scorn, rankled him.

And yet he understood Haldir’s concern as well.  The March-warden could not cast aside his duty on a whim, or to suit Legolas’ wishes.  Doubtless he knew that Gimli was not a threat.  He had accepted Legolas’ testimony to permit the Dwarf to pass, and he surely guessed what trust Lord Elrond had displayed in choosing him for the Company.  Indeed, he had shown what degree of respect he could by setting Legolas as guard.  Were he truly concerned about Gimli he would have left one of his brothers behind.

But none of this changed the fact that Legolas was left to stand watch over the mortals while the border guard risked their lives in a dangerous game with the Enemy.  He was trapped, unable to fight, unable to sleep, and all because of the Dwarf.

This feeling of impotent frustration seemed to be shared by his companions, and a fine-wired tension ran through the small company.  Aragorn and Boromir sat hunched at opposite ends of the flet.  Gimli had resumed pacing in the center.  His muttering was all in Khuzdul, and Legolas did not understand a word, but the black looks that Gimli occasionally cast in his direction were easy enough to interpret.  Perhaps the Dwarf blamed him for their forced inaction.  It was absurd, for even if Legolas had not been resigned to keeping his companions on the flet there was no way that the mortals could have joined in the chase through the treetops.  But there was no point in saying this.  Gimli was frustrated, and Legolas was simply a convenient target for his anger.  And the reverse is surely true as well, Legolas thought in wry acknowledgement.  His own forced inaction was surely due more to Elven prejudice than to the Dwarf, but that did not make it any easier to bear.

Aragorn rose then and walked over to where Legolas sat.  He had removed his boots, and his bare feet made whispered sounds over the smooth boards.  But Andúril was once more belted to his waist.  He stopped next to the Elf, and Legolas looked at him curiously.  His branch grew about four feet above the talan, and seated in it he was just above eye level with the standing Man.

“Can you see the Hobbits?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas turned his head and looked through the tree branches.  “Yes,” he said after a moment.  “They have allowed their lantern to go out.  Three of them are sleeping, and one is sitting up on watch.  I believe that it is Frodo.”

Aragorn sighed, and Legolas looked back at him.  “That is well,” the Man said.  There was a pause, and he glanced aside briefly.  “But I hope that Haldir will return soon.  I would not have them unguarded for long.”

Legolas tilted his head slightly.  Aragorn was clearly uneasy, and he radiated a nervous tension that seemed out of place with the gentle night murmur of the forest.  “What do you fear?”  Legolas asked softly.  He spoke in Sindarin, to save this proud Man the pain of revealing his doubts before the others.  “The yrch are gone.  They will not return.”

Aragorn did not answer for a long moment, but stood and looked out into the shadowed wood.  “More followed us from Moria than Orcs,” he said finally, speaking in the same tongue.  “Perhaps we lost him at the Bridge, but my heart tells me otherwise.  The call is now very strong.”

Legolas narrowed his eyes.  That last did not sound like speculation, or even a gift of the Sight.  Aragorn was speaking from personal experience.  “I have not heard nor seen sign of Gollum since we entered Lothlórien,” he said quietly.  “But if he comes, what would you have me do?”

The Ranger ran a hand through his hair in frustration.  “I don’t know.  Gandalf would not have us kill him.  But I do not know why, or what purpose he saw.  And now,” he shifted his shoulders in an angry gesture, “and now we cannot ask him.”

“No being can tell another’s place in Song.  Perhaps Gandalf himself did not know.”

Aragorn looked at him and one corner of the Man’s mouth quirked.  “Elvish riddles.  Don’t you ever get tired of them?”

Legolas smiled faintly.  “No.  But I would give you a plain answer, Aragorn, were it mine to give.  Truly I do not know what purpose Gollum might serve, but I would not kill him out of hand.  His life is not mine to judge.”

Aragorn’s eyes grew distant, and he seemed to be looking through Legolas.  “His life . . .” the Ranger’s voice trailed off, and he was silent for a long moment.  Legolas could hear the creak of the wooden boards under Gimli’s heavy boots, the shift of cloth as Boromir changed position.  And always, always there was the slow murmur of the timeless forest around them.  Aragorn’s next words were so soft as to blend into that deep song, and they breathed with the power woven through the forest.  “His life may not be for us to judge, but neither is it his own any longer.  The Ring consumes him, Legolas.  He would do anything for it, anything to possess it.  He cannot be trusted.  The need, the hunger, is too strong.”

Legolas looked at him closely.  After a time the Ranger’s eyes focused again and he seemed to see the Elf before him.  He shifted nervously, as if embarrassed, and made to turn away.  But Legolas slipped easily from his branch and caught the Man’s arm. 

“Estel,” he whispered.   Aragorn pulled back, but then stopped, and stood still.  Legolas held his gaze.  “Gollum is . . .” he said.  He hesitated, unsure of how to speak, but then continued blindly.  “Gollum is alone.  He hears no voice but the Ring’s, he has no strength but his own.  But you are not alone.  The Fellowship –”

Aragorn gave a short, harsh laugh.  “The Fellowship,” he said derisively.  “The Fellowship is broken.  Without Gandalf –”

Legolas’ hand clenched involuntarily, his fingers digging into the Ranger’s arm.  “Gandalf told us to have faith.  Even without him, we must hold true to each other.”

The Man did not answer.  He stood mute, and Legolas saw the doubt in his eyes.  He drew a soft breath and continued gently, “I told you before that I would stand with you.  Trust me.  Trust the others.  Together we –”

Aragorn gave a twisted smile.  “The Fellowship is united in trust.  Is that why you are here standing watch over Gimli?”

Legolas blinked in surprise, but Aragorn shrugged.  “It is not difficult to deduce.  I have never known you to avoid a fight, but here you sit.  And you look at Gimli as if he were a chain about your neck.”

“It is not my –”

Aragorn jerked his arm free of the Elf’s grasp.  “Do not make excuses, Legolas.”  The Man’s voice was tight with anger, and Legolas saw the same dangerous gleam in his eye that there had been before, after they had left the Dale.  “You ask me to rely upon you, your strength, your friendship, and yet you cannot let go this pointless feud even here, in your people’s stronghold.  Do not ask me to trust the Fellowship until you can do the same.”

Legolas wanted to refute this, to throw back the unjust accusation, but he could not speak.  The anger, the distrust and malice in Aragorn’s voice was not his own.  This was the Ring, he knew it with a surety, and he felt the whisper of evil twist around them.  But how was he to make Aragorn see this?  If he countered the Man’s words, if he said that his guard over Gimli was the only way gain entrance for the Dwarf, would that not seem as if he sheltered behind Haldir’s prejudice?  In Aragorn’s current mood he surely would seem false, unworthy of trust or friendship.

So he took a long breath and said quietly, “I would help you, Aragorn.  I would serve the Ring-bearer.  If Gollum approaches, shall I kill him?”

The simple trust of that statement, I would do as you say, even were it against my wish, seemed to bring Aragorn back to himself.  He blinked, and shook his head.  “I . . . use your own judgment, Legolas.  If you deem him a threat . . . do as you will.”

He broke away then, and Legolas let him go.  He watched as Aragorn walked slowly back to his own cloak and pack.  Every line of the Man’s body spoke of frustrated tension and anger, and fear.  It was not so very different, Legolas thought as he cast a glance back toward the flet where Frodo sat, from the way he felt himself.

*~*~* 

The night lengthened.  Boromir and Aragorn wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks and lay down again.  It was a long time, though, before their breathing slowed into the even rhythm of sleep.  Even Gimli finally ceased his pacing and lay down, though he kept his large axe close by his side. 

The air was keen and cold, and Legolas breathed deeply of it to keep himself awake.  It was far too easy to fall into the lulling peace of the forest song.  He sat still and straight on his tree limb, but did relax enough to unbuckle his quiver and knives and set them on the flet below.  His shoulders eased at the change of weight, and he arched his back and stretched, exulting in the freedom of movement. 

Then, as the night song deepened and the stars danced with sickle moon, Legolas focused on his bow.  The fracture in its frame was a small one, but even the slightest weakness could cause it to shatter.  He could not fashion a new bow all in one night, and in any case he did not have the wood for it.  The upper branches of these mellyrn might have been flexible enough, but they did not know him and he had no time to seek permission to cut their wood.

He would have to repair the existing bow as best he could.  He had carried a small kit with sealant in his pack, but that had been lost during the unloading of Bill’s supplies, when the Watcher had attacked.  Finally he undid the bowstring and carefully allowed the arched wood to relax.  Then he drew a small dagger from his boot and stroked it slowly along the grain, smoothing the fractured area.  The crack was not deep, and he hoped that he would be able to wear it smooth without weakening the rest of the bow too much.  But it was a makeshift job at best.

For a time there was no sound but the slow scrape of his blade over wood, regular and soothing in the deep night.  Legolas felt his own anger and frustration easing in the steady rhythm of his work, the smooth wood warm and comforting in his hands.  He was slipping into the hypnotic repetition of movement, his eyes glazing over in reverie, when a different sound called back his full attention.  It was faint, so as to hardly be discernable, but clear: a shuffling of the leaves far below, a hissing indrawn breath.  Legolas froze, listening.  Then he slipped his knife back into his boot and set his bow down on the talan, making certain that it would not slip or fall, and leaped into the trees.

He had not far to go.  He climbed swiftly downward and toward the mallorn where the Hobbits slept, then caught a lower branch and swung down to drop lightly onto a thick limb twenty feet below.  From this vantage point he could see the forest floor and the base of the Hobbits’ tree.

For a long moment there was nothing, only the shadowed patterns cast by the faint moonlight and the golden leaves.  Then the hissing breath came again, and a dark shape slunk over the dappled ground.  It hesitated, and the small head came up, sniffing.  Legolas saw the gleam of luminous eyes in the dark.

He watched it, as he had done in Moria, but this time the creature did not see him.  The living branches cloaked him as the dark stone had not.  After a moment Gollum turned away and resumed his slow creep toward the Hobbits’ shelter.  Legolas drew his knife.  If he touches the tree . . . if he tries to attack them . . . in his mind he heard Aragorn’s voice again, if you deem him a threat . . .

Something moved at the periphery of his vision, and he shot a quick glance away from his target.  Haldir was at his side, staring intently at the gangly creature.  “What is it?” he breathed.

Legolas shook his head.  “We cannot permit it to reach the Hobbits,” he whispered back.  “But I would not kill it, if we might capture it instead.  Go down and approach from downwind.  I will guard you from above.”

Haldir shot him a swift glance, then nodded and dropped down through the branches.  Legolas watched Gollum, the blade of his knife light in his fingers.  The little creature was snuffing the drifts of golden leaves, creeping closer to the mallorn now.  Haldir was not in sight.  Gollum looked up; peering at the arching branches high above him, and Legolas heard the slow draw of his breath.  Then in a surprisingly swift movement he leaped and clung to the smooth trunk.

Legolas did not hesitate.  He hurled the knife in a spinning arc – it sang through the crisp winter air and thudded blade deep in the mallorn trunk a half inch above Gollum’s outstretched fingers.

Instantly the creature dropped from the tree with a hissing gasp and vanished into the shadowed wood.  Legolas did not try to follow him.  He dropped lightly to earth just as Haldir appeared around the mallorn trunk.  “I am sorry, my lord,” the March-warden said.  “I was not swift enough.”

Legolas shook his head.  “The fault is mine.  I did not think that he would be so bold, nor move so fast.”

Haldir regarded him curiously as he reached up and pulled his knife from the tree bole.  “You know what it was?  Why did you not kill it?”

Legolas did not answer for a long moment.  He stood and turned the blade slowly in his hand.  “For the same reason you did not shoot it with your bow.  We could not risk it being wounded,” he said finally.  “We dare not take the chance of it making noise.”

The March-warden studied him, his head tilted slightly to the side.  Then he said softly, “There is much that you are concealing from me, my lord.  I held my fire because I did not know what it was, or whether it was a threat.  But you knew, and a warrior of Mirkwood would not be such a poor marksman as you imply.  There is another reason you spare his life.”

Legolas met his gaze silently.  Finally Haldir turned away.  He reached up and touched the wounded tree gently, stroking the mark that Legolas’ knife had made.  “I will climb up and speak to your Hobbit friends,” he said.  “One at least has surely waked.”

“Thank you,” Legolas said.  He also reached up to press his hand briefly against the torn bark.  But the tree’s song was unchanged, as if it had taken no notice of this small impact he had made.

He was half way across the clearing when Haldir said, “Do not expect to keep your secrets long, my lord.  For tomorrow you shall meet the Lady.”

Legolas stopped, and turned back toward him, but Haldir leaped up into the branches, and was gone.

*~*~*

All was still when Legolas returned to the talan.  The Men’s steady breathing indicated that they had not waked, and he moved reluctantly past them toward his tree branch.  Even for a Wood-elf a tree limb was not the most comfortable of seats for a long stretch of time.

But he could not sit on the level talan.  Even in the tree branches and with his bow as a distraction he had nearly fallen into reverie before.  Wholly aside from Haldir’s admonition, he dared not rest now for fear that Gollum would return.  He had spared the creature’s life, but he could not explain why.  Surely it was a threat, surely he risked an attack on the Ring-bearer, or the chance that Gollum would bring Orcs down upon them all, but somehow he could not bring himself to kill the miserable creature.  There was no explanation save the sympathy that he had felt before, in Moria, and the pity that had led him to leniency in Mirkwood.  Despite Aragorn’s words, Legolas could not believe that Gollum was wholly beyond redemption.  He was too tired to examine his motives further.

He had nearly reached the tree limb when a rough voice spoke behind him.  “What was it?”

Legolas spun to find Gimli propped up on one elbow, looking at him with bleary eyes.

“Gollum,” he said softly, and some distant part of him marveled that he did not hesitate to share with a Dwarf what he had kept hidden from his kinsman.  But this Dwarf was a member of the Fellowship, and Legolas would not keep this secret from him.

Gimli was instantly alert.  “Gollum!  Where is he?  Did you kill him?  What of Frodo?”

Legolas drew a steadying breath.  He felt unbearably weary, and reached to touch the tree branch for support as the questions washed over him.  “He is gone.  Haldir is with Frodo now.  He will protect him.”

Gimli frowned.  “You did not tell him!”

“No, Master Dwarf, I did not.  You may trust me at least not to give details of our quest to the first people we meet along the way.”  Although, he thought briefly as he remembered Haldir’s parting words, that may be irrelevant, if the stories of the Lady are true.

Gimli’s scowl deepened, and his beetle-black eyes narrowed.  “But you left Frodo alone with that –”

“Oh, for the sake of the Valar, Dwarf!”  Legolas snapped.  “Haldir has already risked his life once this night to protect the Company, though he did not know what Frodo carries.  You complain much about the arrogance of the Elves, but what of the prejudice of the Dwarves?  Do not judge us when your own words so condemn you.”

There was a silence.  Gimli seemed to be shocked into speechlessness.  Legolas turned away from him and settled once more on his tree limb.  For a long moment he sat with downcast eyes, staring idly at the bow that rested on the talan floor.  Finally he spoke again, without looking up.  “Frodo is safe.  I will watch him from here.  If you will not trust Haldir, trust me at least this far.  No harm will come to the Hobbits this night.”

Gimli did not reply, but after a moment Legolas heard the shift of his cloak and the faint clink of mail as he lay down again.  And as Gimli’s breathing steadied and deepened with sleep, Legolas remembered that night so long ago when he had stood guard in Moria, and the Dwarf had stayed awake to keep watch on him.  And he smiled.

*~*~* 

The next day dawned clear and cool.  The pale rising of the sun shone through the leaves and cast golden shadows over the Company as they assembled on the forest floor.  Climbing down from the trees proved to be more of a challenge than going up had been, as they were forced to look down to find the rungs of the swaying ladders.  But the promise of breakfast on the ground was a great motivator for the Hobbits, and even Gimli managed the distance in good time.

As he looked at his companions, Legolas thought that the night’s rest had done them good.  The Hobbits had regained some of their usual optimism, and Merry and Pippin joined forces to tease Sam into parting with the sausage that he had horded from the Hobbits’ meal the night before.  Even Frodo seemed relaxed, and watched the banter with a faint smile, though he steadfastly refused all attempts to draw him into the fray.

Haldir and Rúmil watched with fascination as Pippin attempted to claim rights to three-quarters of the breakfast food by virtue of a complex argument involving himself, the Thain of Tuckborough, Sam’s Gaffer, and Bill the Pony.  Merry added a short but articulate monologue in support of Pippin’s position, drawing on the history of Buckland and the Old Forest.  Sam listened to all of this without expression, but when the pony was mentioned he stood up and swung his pack on with a grunt.  “You’ve no call to be bringing poor Bill into this, when we don’t know if he’s lost, or frightened, or eaten, or anything,” he said.  “And Mr. Frodo needs this breakfast more than either of you do, begging your pardons.  You can just eat the dried rations while we walk.”

Haldir’s eyes lit in curiosity at this statement, and he shot a probing look at the Ring-bearer.  Legolas stiffened, but Aragorn spoke before anyone could ask why Frodo, in particular, might need additional sustenance.  “The packs are ready,” he said, “and we would all do well to finish our breakfast on the way, and make the best of the daylight for travel.”

Haldir glanced at the Man, and Legolas saw a speculative glint to his eye that suggested that he knew very well that Aragorn sought to distract from Sam’s comment.  But he only nodded, and turned to lead the way through the forest.  Aragorn followed him, and the others came after.  Legolas took his customary position as rear-guard, and Rúmil came last of all.  Orophin was not there as he had gone on to alert the larger patrols nearer the center of the wood.  The borders would be far better guarded this night. 

Legolas marveled that it had taken an actual incursion of Orcs to shake these Elves of their complacency.  Dol Guldur loomed only a few leagues to the north, and yet they had such confidence that no enemy could enter their borders.  That confidence had been shaken last night.  Whatever power guarded these woods, whether that of an Elven Ring or some other force, was being tested.  And whether by some caprice of the One Ring, or the growing Shadow, that power had weakened.

The path was churned with the deep prints of Orcs, but there was no hint of disquiet in the wood this morning.  Legolas tilted his head back as he walked, breathing deeply of the crisp air and watching the leaves dance gold in the morning light.  It seemed strange to walk slowly along the earthen path when all the forest was alive and fresh with the dawn.  In Mirkwood such a morning was a rare blessing, and would be treasured as a time to celebrate in the canopy, rejoicing in the brief lifting of the Shadow.  But Haldir and Rúmil appeared to find nothing extraordinary in the peaceful morning.  They seemed slightly discomfited, but that was likely because they were, as Haldir had said, unaccustomed to walking on the ground.  Apart from that they were relaxed, and they walked with weapons slung casually at their backs and hands swinging free.  Legolas kept his restrung bow in his hand, and marveled again at the peace that these Elves took completely for granted.  What would it be like to live in a place like this, where one could walk on the ground without fear, and the forest held no taint of Shadow?  Legolas had grown to adulthood during the Watchful Peace, but even then Mirkwood had not been free.  He had not gone unarmed since the mortal equivalent age of six.

The others seemed to also feel the peace of this place.  Gimli had stopped fingering his axe every few minutes.  Aragorn walked easily behind Haldir with his hands loose at his sides and even Boromir appeared to be more at ease.  He was joking with the Hobbits as they walked, and Legolas noted that he even spoke comfortably with Frodo.  He remembered Aragorn’s words the night before: the call is now very strong.  But Boromir seemed to be resisting the Ring now, and Aragorn too was much more like himself.  Perhaps it wanes here, where the Shadow does not come.  But he had no faith in that idea.  Despite the deep power of these woods the Ring had certainly drawn Gollum to them, and it had worked its influence over Aragorn.  It waits.  Even here, in the place of our people’s greatest strength, it only waits.

They soon reached the crossing of the Celebrant, far deeper and stronger than the Nimrodel.  Haldir paused at the bank and gave a low bird call.  He tossed a coil of rope easily to the Elf that emerged at the other bank.  They made the bridge fast and then Haldir called for the Company to follow as he ran across the rope.

Boromir gave an impatient snort at this display, and Gimli made a low rumbling sound in his chest.  The Hobbits were staring in open mouthed astonishment as Haldir reached the other side, glanced back, and then returned to them.  Legolas was tempted to laugh at his kinsman’s ignorance, but he vividly remembered his own folly at that first large chasm, so long ago in Moria, and he managed to restrain himself. 

“I can walk this path,” he said as Haldir returned to their bank, “but the others have not this skill.  Must they swim?” An image flashed suddenly through his mind: Gimli so weighed down with armour and axes that he sank and simply walked across the bottom of the stream, and Legolas stifled another laugh.  He was feeling slightly giddy.  Although he had not slept, the forest song had eased his pain and now, free of the oppressive weight of stone and Shadow, mere physical weariness seemed a minor thing.  He was fey and light headed.

Haldir blinked at his words, and for an instant the proud warrior looked comically surprised.  But he recovered quickly.  Two more ropes were soon secured at shoulder height for the Hobbits and Men, and the Company crossed with varying degrees of ease.   Gimli came last of all, and gripped both ropes tightly: reaching up above his head to grasp the one set for the Men and shuffling sideways like the freshwater crabs of Laketown.  Legolas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.  Gimli reached the shore with axes and armour intact and shot Legolas a suspicious look as the Elf struggled for composure.  Legolas swallowed hard and gave what he hoped was an innocent smile before turning back toward Haldir.

The March-warden was occupied with dismantling the bridge, and if he thought the mortals amusing he gave no sign.  He tossed one rope back to his brother at the far shore.  Rúmil coiled it up and vanished into the trees.  At Legolas’ questioning look Haldir said, “He must return to the Nimrodel to keep watch.  We will go on.”

Legolas caught his breath in shock at this casual statement.  To send only one guard back to the border alone!  Such an action would be utterly inconceivable in Mirkwood, where even the Home Guard never patrolled in groups fewer than five.  Even with the shelter of the mellyrn it seemed a terrible risk, and he marveled at the casualness with which Haldir sent his brother into peril.  But the March-warden did not seem to consider it any great danger, and even Aragorn appeared unperturbed by the idea.  The Ranger knew the dangers of the Wild, but he had traveled here before and he had been fostered in Rivendell.  Once again Legolas felt the gulf that separated his home from these peaceful realms, and he repressed a twinge of jealousy.  They are so rich, and they do not even know it.

Haldir was speaking further, welcoming them to the internal realms of Lothlórien, and Legolas pulled himself back to focus.  “We allow no strangers to spy out the secrets of the Naith.  Few indeed are even permitted to set foot there.  As was agreed, I shall here blindfold the eyes of Gimli the Dwarf.  The others may walk free for a while, until we come nearer to our dwellings, down in Egladil, in the Angle between the waters.”

“What!”  Gimli roared.  “‘Agreed’?  Who agreed?  When did –” He stopped then, and turned slowly to look at Legolas.  Legolas fought down the urge to back up a step.  The Dwarf’s gaze was positively murderous.  “You,” Gimli growled.  He stalked slowly toward the Elf, his hands clenching in fists.  “You did this.  You black-hearted, traitorous, treacherous, misbegotten Orc-spawned –”

“Gimli!”  Aragorn said sharply.

The Dwarf stopped, but continued to glare for a long moment.  Legolas met his eyes fearlessly.  He could not explain his actions, which surely must seem like treachery to the Dwarf, but neither would he be goaded into apologizing for them.  The blindfold, unfair though it might seem to Gimli, was the only way to gain entrance for him at all.  It was this or splinter the Fellowship even further.  And if the Dwarf had the diplomatic awareness that Ilúvatar gave a jackdaw he would realize it.

Gimli finally turned away from Legolas to glare at Aragorn.  “I suppose you were in on this?” he said bitterly.  Without waiting for a response he whirled on Haldir.  “This agreement was made without my consent.” His voice was fractured with the effort of control.  “I will not walk blindfolded, like a beggar or a prisoner.  And I am no spy.  My folk have never had dealings with any of the servants of the Enemy.  Neither have we done harm to the Elves.  I am no more likely to betray you than Legolas, or any other of my companions.”

Haldir raised his eyebrows in a pointed look.  Given Gimli’s immediate reaction, this skepticism was understandable, but oddly enough Legolas himself felt no injury at the Dwarf’s diatribe.  Considering the circumstances and the Dwarf’s usually irascible temper, he thought that Gimli was showing admirable restraint.  He caught the March-warden’s gaze and nodded slightly in confirmation of Gimli’s words.  He had, after all, told him much the same the night before.

Haldir turned smoothly back to the Dwarf.  “I do not doubt you,” he said.  “Yet this is our law.  I am not the master of the law, and cannot set it aside.  I have done much in letting you set foot over Celebrant.”

Gimli was apparently immune to logic, however.  He set his legs firmly apart and laid one hand on the shaft of his short throwing axe.  “I will go forward free,” he said, “or I will go back and seek my own land, where I am known to be true of word, though I perish in the wilderness.” 

Legolas suppressed a sigh.  If that was what the Dwarf wished, it would not have been difficult to achieve.  And it would have saved Legolas considerable negotiating time and a sleepless night as well.  He felt his patience with this argument ebb rapidly.

Haldir grew stern.  “You cannot go back,” he said.  “Now you have come this far, you must be brought before the Lord and the Lady.  They will judge you, to hold you or give you leave, as they will.  You cannot cross the rivers again, and behind you there are now secret sentinels that you cannot pass.  You would be slain before you saw them.”

Legolas gritted his teeth.  That could have been better said.  But before he could say anything to defuse the situation Gimli pulled his axe from his belt.  The weapon came free with a ring of metal on mail, and the Dwarf swung it easily in one glove-clad hand.  Instantly Haldir and the other Elf bent their bows, their arrows trained on Gimli’s head.

Without thought Legolas stepped between them.  He drew no weapon.  He could not fully trust his bow, and in any case no Elf had drawn weapon against another since the dark days.  He would not be the first, and he was trusting that Haldir would not either.  The March-warden’s eyes widened in shock, but Legolas met his gaze and did not move.  Haldir actually held his draw for a moment, the arrow now trained on Legolas’ chest, but he swiftly recovered and lowered his bow.  His companion followed suit.

Legolas released a slow breath, still holding Haldir’s gaze.  The March-warden glared back, his jaw set and his eyes hard.  There was no sound but the deep chuckle of the river and the Hobbits’ faint, rapid breathing.  Then Haldir stepped back.  He did not look away, but Legolas felt the tension ease.  A line had been set, one that Haldir would not cross.

Then there was a clink of metal and Gimli shoved Legolas aside.  He knocked the Elf back a step, and Legolas whirled to keep from stumbling.  All his frustrated tension and weariness came bubbling to the surface, and he glared at Gimli.  Gimli glared back, a wealth of stung pride in his eyes. 

Legolas could have struck him then.  All his efforts this past night: his admission to Haldir, his sleepless watch, were evidently worth nothing.  He had nearly had the situation under control, and given a moment to speak quietly with Haldir he was certain he could find some way to compromise.  But in his stubborn blindness Gimli would not even trust him that far.  “A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!” Legolas hissed. 

Aragorn stepped forward then, his hands raised in a placatory gesture as he moved between them.  “Come,” he said.  “If I am still to lead this Company, you must do as I bid.”  He shot a swift glance at Legolas, and Legolas ground his teeth at the way the Man had turned his earlier words against him.  But he dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Aragorn continued.  “It is hard upon the Dwarf to be thus singled out.  We will all be blindfold, even Legolas.  That will be best, though it will make the journey slow and dull.”

Legolas’ head jerked up in astonishment.  That was not part of the plan!

But before he could speak Gimli gave a sudden, short laugh.  “A merry troop of fools we shall look!  Will Haldir lead us all on a string, like many blind beggars with one dog?  But I will be content, if only Legolas here shares my blindness.”  He looked challengingly at the Elf, and Legolas tensed.

“I am an Elf and a kinsman here,” he said dangerously.

Aragorn snorted.  “Now let us cry, ‘a plague on the stiff necks of Elves!’” he said.  Legolas glared at him.  But Aragorn was already turning toward the others.  “But all the Company shall fair alike.  Come, blind our eyes, Haldir!”

Haldir looked as uncertain at this development as Legolas felt.  He glanced from the Ranger to the archer and back again, but made no move to produce more blindfolds.  Legolas for his part stared at Aragorn with narrowed eyes.  Aragorn met and held his gaze, and the message was clear.  If he is to lead . . .

Legolas drew a slow breath and looked away.  His jaw clenched, but he gave a short nod of acquiescence.  Aragorn drew a ragged cloak from his pack and began tearing it in long strips.  Haldir and his companion took the cloths and moved slowly through the Company.  Gimli was making a low rumbling sound in his chest, but he did not pull away as the blindfold was drawn over his eyes.  “I shall claim full amends for every fall and stubbed toe, if you do not lead us well,” he said.

“You will have no claim,” Haldir said as he approached Legolas.  “I shall lead you well, and the paths are smooth and straight.”

Then he stopped in front of Legolas, and looked at him hesitantly.  “I would do otherwise, my lord, were it in my power,” he murmured.

“I know,” Legolas said.  He turned his back to permit Haldir to tie the cloth behind his head, and fought down a thin trickle of panic as the darkness closed over him.  This was the first morning they had seen since Moria, the first time he had been free to walk in the sunlight and see the play of golden leaves, and now he must be once again bound in darkness.  He was breathing in short, shallow breaths as he struggled for calm.  It is not the same.  I hear the forest, I feel the Song.  It is not the same.  But his heart still pounded in his chest.

Haldir was speaking with the Hobbits, talking of the distant Havens beyond the Shire, as they were led away from the rushing Celebrant.  It was then, as he picked his way along the narrow path, that Legolas realized that he could still see.  Haldir had tied the bond loosely, and by looking down Legolas could make out the path beneath his feet, the glimmer of light and color in the drifts of golden leaves.

For one brief moment his heart leapt, and he grasped what Haldir offered him – the chance to walk at ease in the golden wood, the chance to see.  But then, before he could give in to temptation, Legolas reached up and drew the blindfold tight with a swift, angry jerk.  The light was cut off, and the darkness was complete.  He was still bound to serve the Fellowship, and he would not leave his companions to suffer alone.  But he wished that he could tell Gimli what sacrifice an Elf had made for a Dwarf.

*~*~* 

Coming soon: Chapter 13, in which Gimli learns how to find an Elf in the dark.

Disclaimer:  Nothing is mine.  All is Tolkien’s.  We’re all much better off that way.

Chapter 13:  First Steps

Gimli was furious.  He stomped over the soft path, his hands clenched at his sides.  He wanted to hit something, preferably Legolas.  That accursed Elf had humiliated him in front of the entire Fellowship and the Elves of Lothlórien.  More than that: the honor of all Khazad had been at stake.  These haughty, stubborn, prideful Elves had insulted him and his people, had scorned him simply because he was a Dwarf, and then sought to lead him blind and captive as a common thief or beggar.  Him, Gimli Gloinson, of the Lonely Mountain, honored craftsman and warrior, a direct descendant of Durin himself!

And then, when he had stood ready to defend his people’s honor, to force this stupid, block-headed border guard to recognize the folly of his prejudice, Legolas had intervened.  Had actually stepped in front of him, as if he were not worthy of notice, or worse, as if he were a child to be protected.  And now the entire Fellowship was blind and dependant upon the very Elves that had insulted and distrusted them from the beginning!

Gimli had been prepared to accept his own blindfolding, if only Legolas were to be so bound as well.  But he had intended that Aragorn and Boromir, at least, go free to guard the Hobbits.  He had offered the prince the chance to prove that he truly could put the interests of the Fellowship over his own pride.  But Legolas had refused the chance, and now they must all needs be blind and helpless with only these hostile strangers as protection.  It was folly, it was lunacy, and it was all because of that stupid, stubborn, conceited Elf!

Yet even as he thought this, his muscles locked and shaking in his anger, some seed of doubt lingered.  Legolas had, after all, placed himself between Gimli and the guards’ arrows.  It was a foolhardy move, and hardly needed, for Gimli had had the situation perfectly in control.  The guard had been no threat to him.  He was certain of it.  Almost certain.  And yet . . . and yet the gesture, foolish as it was, was in keeping with the self sacrifice that the Elf had shown in Moria.  Against his will, Gimli remembered again Legolas’ determination to stay behind after Gandalf fell, rather than risk harm to the Fellowship.

Angrily he pushed these doubts aside.  None of that changed the current situation, and it only showed that Legolas was as faithless and changeable as all Elves.  For had he not conspired with the guard to blindfold Gimli from the beginning?  And would he not have found amusement in the sight of Gimli blundering helpless and alone in the dark?

As if to prove this point the soft earth suddenly changed beneath Gimli’s feet, and he stumbled abruptly.  He might have fallen, but a strong hand caught his arm.  “Careful, Master Dwarf,” a musical voice said.  “The path curves here to your left.”

Gimli grunted and jerked his arm away.  The Elf, the rear-guard he assumed, for it had not been Haldir’s voice, fell back.  Gimli pushed one heavy boot forward and cautiously felt the raised edge of the tree root that had tripped him.  He followed the curve of the path slowly, listening to follow the tread of the Men in front of him.  The Hobbits were nearly useless for that purpose, as their bare feet scarcely made any noise even where the dry leaves drifted over the path.  And the Elves might not have been there at all, so silent did they walk.  But Gimli was accustomed through long years of experience to triangulating sounds in the dark.  There was not the flat echo from stone walls to assist him, but he could follow Aragorn and Boromir, if he concentrated.  He could hear the crunch of Aragorn’s footsteps, the swish of Boromir’s heavy cloak.  Unfortunately, however, these were uncertain guides as they came from well ahead of him, and were obscured by the myriad sounds of the forest.

Indeed, as he walked Gimli became increasingly aware of the complexity of sounds about him.  The forest, so silent the night before, was now alive with birdsong, the rustle of leaves in the early morning breeze and the chatter of squirrels overhead.  His other senses, too, were heightened as he adjusted to his blindness.  He could feel the brush of the cool breeze on his face, could smell the faint spice of the leaves crushed under his boots, a scent like cinnamon and smoke.

Gimli hunched his shoulders and tramped on.  It was not blindness per se that bothered him.  He had grown to adulthood in a world of twilight: small, half-lit caverns and shadowed tunnels, for the Dwarves in exile were poor and had not the land or resources to construct the great halls of their ancestors.  He had once been trapped in a cave-in when the support for a new mine’s lowest level had given way, and had waited alone and injured, in the absolute dark and thinning air for two days before his father’s team had been able to dig him out.

The dark did not trouble him.  But this, this helplessness as he was led along like a child by these insufferable Elves, this infuriated him.  And the sense that he could almost see, as he walked through dappled patterns of light and shade, was intensely frustrating.  More than that, he felt again the strong sense of displacement, of disorientation, that had plagued him since first they entered the Elven wood.

There were things to do, safety measures to follow, when one was without light in the caves.  Stay still.  Don’t move, and if the cave is stable then make noise.  Wait for the others to find you.  And if one couldn’t wait, if one had to move, then find a good wall to follow.  Don’t go blind in the dark, feel the way ahead, go slowly and use a locator cry to find open passages.  But here there were no walls to follow, and no stone to give back an echo at all.  His long years of experience were working against him, for every instinct developed in the mines was absolutely useless in this deceptively open forest.

The earth was soft underfoot and muffled his steps, and all around he felt the open air and heard birdsong and the sigh of wind in the branches far overhead, none of which was the least bit helpful in avoiding sudden obstacles or pitfalls.  He did not trust their guides, for all of Haldir’s promises of a smooth path, and he felt as if the yielding earth might simply give way at any moment and plunge him into an abyss.  He stalked with muscles knotted in anxiety, and his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached.

And on top of all of that there was the inexplicable strangeness of these woods.  Unable to see the sun, he swiftly lost all sense of time or direction.  This was intensely unnerving, for he was long accustomed to finding his way in the trackless tunnels beneath the earth, and his innate time sense served him without reference to sun or stars.  But now he felt oddly pulled astray, his perceptions skewed like a compass brought too close to a lodestone.  And time ran strangely here, if indeed it ran at all.

Then, in the midst of his confusion and frustration, a new sound came.  It was soft, so as to blend with the low sigh of the wind and the rustle of the leaves, but it was distinct and separate from those sounds.  A continual melodic whisper, wordless and yet familiar, and Gimli turned toward it without thinking.  It was a constant, a tangible thread that he could grasp, and it gave him direction.  He followed it, clinging to the familiar voice as though to a lifeline.  His sharp hearing found direction in the sound: a guide along the path through this confusing wood.  It was only later, as his tension ebbed and his mind cleared, that he realized what the sound was.  Legolas was singing.

*~*~*

The slow deep rhythm of the forest was like a soothing balm to Legolas.  His initial flare of panic at the closing of the blindfold faded as they moved through the living wood.  The trees were still strange to him, their pulse somehow distant as if drifting up from deep wells of memory, from a time removed from the world in which he walked.  But there was comfort in their unchanging strength.

He was fascinated, wondering and drawn to the age deep song that brushed at the edge of his awareness, just beyond his understanding.  He had not known that there could be a place like this, removed from strife and untouched by Shadow, where time itself was suspended in peace.  And he thought that if he could just listen, could bring himself in resonance with this place, then he might truly hear Ilúvatar’s Song as it was meant to be, unsullied by grief or hate, as it had been at the beginnings of Creation.

His eyes were covered, but he did not need them now.  Haldir walked in front of him, deliberately trying to make noise for the mortals to follow, and occasionally calling back word of changes in the path.  Legolas scarcely heard him.  He was listening to the golden wood, breathing in slow rhythm with the life all around him, attuning himself to it.  And as he came to know this place his senses became more meaningful, so that the brush of a leaf falling to earth told him the level of the path, and the sweep of a rook’s wings overhead showed him the curve of its arc southwards through the forest.

But these things were mere physical realities, and he followed them unthinking, walking with sure grace through the wood.  There was a deeper meaning to the gentle peace he felt, he knew it, but that truth yet eluded him.  And as he sought the greater harmony he heard the thousand small sounds of the forest: the higher tone in the wind’s voice as it passed from the great mellyrn into the smaller trees, the low murmur of the river away to his right, the sluff and stamp of his companions’ movements behind him.  And in that there was a note of discord.

He could feel Aragorn’s sure presence just behind, steady and confident in these woods that were not so strange to him.  Beyond that there was the slower pace and heavy stride of Boromir: the Man walked with mingled determination and uneasiness.  Then there came the light patter of the Hobbits, wondering and curious with the occasional muttered complaint of hunger.  And finally there was Gimli.

The Dwarf growled continuously under his breath as he trudged behind, and though Legolas did not understand the words the meaning was clear enough.  Gimli radiated tension, and Legolas could hear the continuous grinding of his teeth.

He wondered at that.  The Dwarf had been clearly on edge and uncomfortable from the moment they had entered Lothlórien.  For all his willingness to fight for her, Gimli had no love for the Elven forest.  Legolas could understand that, for after all the people here had given him little in way of welcome.  This was a place of memory, and the home of Amroth did not sanction strangers.  But now the Company walked in peace, and the forest was calm.  Even Boromir walked comfortably now.  Why then was the Dwarf so ill at ease?

Unwillingly, Legolas found himself remembering his own discomfort as they had entered Moria.  Before he had fully understood the depth of evil that awaited them, before he had felt the strength and malice of the Shadow, he had been disoriented and discomfited by the alien world of the mines.  Was that what Gimli felt now?  The Dwarf had no affinity for the forest.  He seemed alienated, lost in a world that was as strange to him as Khazad-dûm had been to Legolas.

Legolas thought of the long hours spent on the knife-edge of panic, under the weight of stone in the pit of Moria.  And he remembered the steady tread of the Dwarf, leading them on when even Mithrandir’s light had faltered to darkness.  He thought of his own words to Haldir, I could not have survived . . . I owe him a debt that I cannot repay.  And he thought of Gimli’s pain at the tomb of his kin, and his eagerness to fight even for this wood that did not welcome him.

And Legolas wished that there were some way to bring comfort to the Dwarf, to help him as he had helped the Fellowship in Moria.  But surely the forest would do that?  Surely even the Dwarf could not be untouched by its power. 

As if in answer to this thought there came the distinct stumble of heavy boots from behind, and a Dwarvish oath.  Legolas heard the words of their rear-guard as the Elf spoke to Gimli, evidently preventing a fall.  The Dwarf had apparently walked straight into the raised edge of the path as it wound through the forest, a turn that Legolas had navigated without thinking as he listened to the slow rise and fall of the tree-song around them.

Then Legolas realized a concept so strange that he nearly stopped full in his tracks.  The Dwarf could not hear the forest song.  Perhaps none of the mortals could, at least not in the same way that the Elves did.  He had long known that mortals’ perceptions were different from his own.  But while the Men and Hobbits were at least able to find peace in Lothlórien, Gimli was too caught up in his own troubles: grief for his kin, most likely, and for Mithrandir, and now his stung pride at being made captive to the Elves.  He could not hear Ilúvatar’s Song, not even in the stones of his people’s heritage.  How much more was he lost here, where no Dwarf had trod in years uncounted?

But perhaps . . . perhaps there was a way that Legolas could help, after all.  If the Dwarf could not hear the forest . . . could not Legolas hear it for him?  And bring its song to the level that Gimli could appreciate, perhaps even use as a guide in his blindness, as Legolas had followed him in Moria.  Experimentally, excited by his own idea, Legolas began to sing.  He followed the tone of the forest’s slow deep melody, but raised his voice enough that the Dwarf was sure to hear it.  And as he sang, bringing his voice and mind in resonance with the power of this wood, he felt the tension behind him ease.  The muttered Dwarvish grumblings disappeared, and Gimli’s footsteps came more confidently along the path.

Legolas continued his song as they traveled through the day, carelessly as if in mere appreciation of the forest’s beauty, hidden from his companions’ scrutiny by the blindfolds.  And he listened to the others as they walked in peace, even the Dwarf.

*~*~*

They traveled on through the day, with only two short breaks to rest the Hobbits’ legs.  Legolas sang while they walked, but fell silent when they stopped.  Gimli found himself, completely irrationally, missing the Elf’s song during these periods.  He had not thought about it before in their journey:  Legolas had sung frequently since they had set out from Rivendell, and Gimli had learned to tune the Elf out for the most part.  He sang when the sun rose, and when it set, he sang when the stars came out and when a breeze blew and when Pippin burned the sausages.  The only time he had not sung at all was when they journeyed through Moria.  Gimli had come to accept the singing as another one of the Elf’s idiosyncrasies: mildly annoying, but not worthy of comment.

Yet now Legolas’ song served another purpose.  It guided Gimli as they walked blind through the strange and deceptive wood, and it was comforting.  It was familiar, the only familiar thing in this whole blasted forest.  And even though he did not need the song when they sat and rested under the trees, he missed it.  He would have torn his beard out by the roots before he admitted this to Legolas, but it was true nonetheless.

So it was that when they finally stopped to make camp for the night, Gimli found himself laying his sleeping roll near the Elf’s.  It was purely pragmatic, for Legolas had continued humming softly as they made camp, and Gimli simply followed the sound.  How else was he to know where to put his bedroll?  The rest of the Fellowship was blind and could not help him, and he scarcely trusted Haldir not to direct him to sleep at the edge of a cliff.

But the Elf had made his bed near the base of a great mallorn tree, and Gimli soon felt out a sort of shelter for himself between the roots.  Haldir had flatly refused to permit them to take off the blindfolds even at night, so they could not climb up to sleep in the tree branches.  This was, Gimli thought, the only good thing about their entire maddening situation.

Legolas ceased humming soon after Gimli lay down, and for a time there was silence, broken only by the whispered conversation of the Hobbits and Boromir’s characteristic nocturnal muttering.  But these sounds were muted, as if muffled by the still air, and they faded entirely as the Company fell into sleep. 

Gimli lay awake, feeling the constriction of the blindfold at his temples and the bridge of his nose, and listening.  The forest was so quiet.  As they walked during the day, there were the sounds of birds, squirrels, the wind and his companions’ voices and footsteps.  Once he found some orientation in Legolas’ song, he could almost pretend that it was a normal wood.

But now, as the winter night fell chill upon the land, it seemed unnaturally silent.  No bird cried, no insect chirped: there was no stir of life at all.  Gimli could hear the distant sigh of the night breeze; all else was still.

Then a terrible thought struck him, and he froze rigid in his bedroll.  He could not hear any of the rest of the Fellowship.  Not Boromir’s snores or Aragorn’s rasping breath, not Pippin’s usual turning in his sleep.  He could not even hear Legolas, and he was certain that the Elf’s bed had been not three feet away.  What if they were gone?  What if they had been led away, kidnapped or swallowed by this forest? 

He felt it with sudden certainty: the Elves had abandoned him.  They had taken the Fellowship and left him to wander alone and blind in the alien wood.  His heart clenched in a spasm of fear – what if he took the blindfold off, and the darkness remained?  This was no forest: he was suspended in the abyss, trapped and helpless and isolated in the dark, and he sat up, reaching to tear the cloth from his eyes and confront the emptiness, to demand answer from the void itself, when strong fingers closed around his wrist and a soft voice said, “Be still Master Dwarf.  You make enough noise to shake the leaves from the trees.”

Gimli started badly, so certain had he been that he was alone, and for a long moment he could not move but crouched rigid, his heart pounding in his ears.  He bit his tongue to keep from crying out, or laughing aloud.  Of course the Elf would be there.  He should have known.  Being lost and alone in the wood would not be punishment enough.  The Valar were clearly trying to drive him mad.

The grip around his wrist loosened, and Legolas’ voice changed.  Almost it sounded concerned.  “Master Dwarf?  Are you ill?”

Still struggling for control, Gimli shook his head.  He was not ill.  He might be losing his mind, but he was in perfect health. 

“Master Dwarf?”  The Elf definitely sounded concerned now.  Gimli realized that he would have to speak, for it seemed that Legolas could not see his gesture.  So he truly was blind as well.  He had suspected otherwise, when Legolas had led so unerringly along the forest path, and now he felt a small trickle of shame at his own paranoia.

“I am . . .” he hesitated.  It would be a lie to say that he was well.  He was on edge, and nervous, and still some part of him still feared that they had been abandoned, him and the Elf, for he could hear no sound from their companions.  “I do not like this wood.  It’s too quiet.”

“Quiet?”  Legolas released his wrist, and Gimli could hear the smile in his voice.  “Is it?  It does not seem so to me.”

Gimli snorted.  “Next you’ll say that the trees are talking to you.”

Legolas’ voice was thoughtful.  “No, Master Dwarf.  They do not talk to me, yet.  Their song is . . . different, deeper than any I have felt before.  I do not think they take much notice of us.”

“Hmph.”  Gimli did not know whether to be relieved at that, or insulted.  “Just as well.  But I dare say my axe could make them wake up a bit, if you fancied a chat.”

Legolas laughed softly.  “Peace, Master Dwarf.  The power of the Golden Wood is not to be trifled with, even by a warrior of your renown.  And I fear I would not be fit company for conversation.  I am very weary.”

Gimli was startled into speechlessness at this last confession: an understatement, to be sure, for the Elf’s exhaustion had been clear even back in Khazad-dûm.  But he had never expected Legolas to actually admit to weakness.  He had had some thought to address the grievances that still lay between them, and to make the Elf beg pardon for his arrogance, but now it simply seemed like too much trouble.  He also was tired, and none of it seemed to matter much now.

“Sleep then,” he said with an effort at casualness.  In truth, though he was loathe to admit it, he feared to lose the anchor of the Elf’s clear voice.  It gave him direction in the desolate silence, and he could visualize Legolas sitting not far away, pack and weapons close at hand, doubtless as clean and meticulously ordered as ever.  He was so perfect at times that Gimli wanted to smack him, but still there was something comforting in that.  Even Legolas, unpredictable though he was, was constant in some things.  Gimli might have wished for different company, Aragorn perhaps, or one of the Hobbits, but the Elf was better than nothing.  Yet he would not make Legolas suffer further for his sake.  “I don’t know why you didn’t sleep last night, when you had the chance.”

There was a pause, and Legolas released a long breath, almost a sigh.  “It was foolishness, Master Dwarf.  Arrogance and foolish pride, I am certain, and now I am fey and careless, so that I seek converse with a Dwarf.  Imagine what my father would say!”

Gimli laughed aloud.  “I expect that his reaction would be much the same as that of my father, if he knew that his son sat up through the night with an Elf.  An Elvish princeling, I should say.”

Legolas groaned.  “Please, Master Dwarf, do not bring that up again.  Haldir has finally determined that I am capable of eating without assistance, and that I can walk without flower petals scattered at my feet.  I beg you; do nothing to make him think otherwise.”

Gimli smirked.  The note of desperation in Legolas’ voice seemed genuine, and promised some leverage over the Elf in future arguments.  And yet it gave him pause as well.  For all his preconceptions of Legolas as the Elven king’s son, it seemed that he genuinely did not desire special treatment.  This did not fit well with the comfortable assumptions that Gimli had held about the Elf.

But there were more immediate concerns at hand, and the mention of the March-warden drew his attention.  “Where is Haldir?  I can’t hear him, or any of the others.” 

Even as he said this some distant part of his mind marveled that he asked so casually for help from the Elf.  But Legolas was right.  His exhaustion, coupled with the blindfold and the strange sense of timelessness in this forest, made all of this seem slightly unreal.  Legolas’ voice gave him direction, but still it seemed unconnected to the being he had fought and bickered with since they had left Rivendell.  He felt free, as if nothing he said now had any real consequences for later.  And besides, the Elf had admitted weakness first.

Legolas paused, and Gimli could almost see him turning his head, listening.  Finally he spoke.  “Haldir is on the other side of the clearing, perhaps twenty feet from us.  He is keeping watch.  The other guard is not here – he is patrolling in the canopy above.  Aragorn is sleeping a few feet to my left, near the base of a beech tree, not a mallorn.  The Hobbits are all together in the middle of the clearing.  Boromir is not far beyond them.”

Gimli frowned.  The Elf was far too certain in his answer.  I knew it.  He’s taken the blindfold off, or he never had it at all.  Untrustworthy, deceitful, arrogant… “How do you know all that?” he demanded, unable to keep the suspicious note from his voice.  “You can’t possibly tell all that from listening.”

Legolas’ response was sharp.  “I can see nothing, Master Dwarf.  I am blind, just as you are.”  Unspoken was the implication, and I should not be so, were it not for you.  “Haldir is an Elf, and this forest knows him.  He is resonant with it.  He has… energy.  I can feel it, just as he can sense me.  Pippin is restless in his sleep.  I can hear him turning, and I heard Sam’s grunt when he kicked his shin.  Frodo and Merry are quiet, but I hear them breathing, and they would not sleep far from the others.  Boromir talks in his sleep.  And I can smell the pipeweed smoke on Aragorn’s clothes.”

Gimli grunted.  He was mollified, but still it seemed incredible.  “And the other guard?”

“He is not in the clearing.  I heard Haldir tell him to scout a perimeter, some time ago.  He would not stay on the ground for that.”

“Hmph.”  Gimli hesitated.  The sense of unreality was still upon him, and his words did not matter, but still something within him resisted apologizing to the Elf. 

Finally he cleared his throat and spoke, grateful that the blindfold hid his blush from the other.  “I . . . I did not mean to doubt you, Master Elf.  It is only that . . . I mean, I did not know . . . that is, I cannot hear any of it, what you describe.  This forest is too strange for me.  I will be glad when we are quit of it.”

“Will you?”  At that moment Legolas sounded as distant and strange as the wood itself, and there was a queer note to his voice that made Gimli shiver.  “I wonder.” 

Then the mood seemed to pass, and he spoke lightly.  “But it is not so odd that a Dwarf would not hear the forest as a Wood-elf might.  I was surely as deaf in your people’s mines.”

Gimli sighed.  He felt very old, and weary, unable to summon any defense against the blame that the Elf surely put upon him, him who should have heard, should have sensed what evil waited in Moria.  The Fellowship had trusted him, Gandalf had trusted him, and he had failed them all. 

“We were all of us deaf, I think.  Blind and deaf, and Gandalf paid the price.”  His stomach hurt with the old ache, as of a wound that would never heal.  Balin, Oin, Gandalf . . . how many had been lost?  How many had died, because of his people’s greed?  Surely the Elves were right to scorn the Dwarves.  Surely they deserved exile, if he were representative of their best.  He had led Gandalf to his death.

But Legolas said firmly, “It was not of your making, son of Glóin.  What price was paid was done so willingly.  I know not what purpose it served, but it was Gandalf’s choice.  It was his right.”

Gimli could not speak for a long moment, so great was the pain in his chest.  Finally he whispered, “Would that he had listened to you.  Would that we had never gone into Moria.”

Legolas gave a soft laugh that seemed almost a sob.  “I could not take the choice from him, Master Dwarf.  And would you then have deprived me of seeing your people’s marvel, your great city beneath the earth?”

I would, Gimli thought.  I would have sent you on to carry the Ring-bearer over Caradhras alone, Elf, and I would have collapsed the pillars of Khazad-dûm myself, if it could have spared Gandalf his fate.  But he swallowed hard and said only, “You’re talking even more foolishly than usual, Master Elf.  Go to sleep before you lose what few wits you have.”

Legolas seemed to gain control again.  His voice was calmer when he replied.  “Ah, but if I lost my senses I would be perfect company for a Dwarf, would I not?  And in any case, shall I find sleep now, blind and helpless on the ground when Orcs have penetrated even into Lothlórien?”

Gimli smiled faintly at this rejoinder, grateful for the change of subject.  His guilt weighed heavily, but he was too tired to dwell further on it.  His natural pragmatism came to the fore and he shrugged, though he knew that the Elf could not see it. 

“Not much point in you staying awake then, if you’re really so blind and helpless as you say.  Don’t see what good you’d do us like that.  And,” he patted the soft earth experimentally, “this ground isn’t so bad for sleeping.  There isn’t a single good rock in this whole blasted forest, near as I can tell.  It’s not as if you slept any better up in that tree last night, anyway.”

“Hmm.”  The Elf sounded thoughtful.  “Perhaps you are right, Master Dwarf.  At least you might find the ground more secure, deprived as you are of what few senses you have.  But tell me this: have you ever tried to sleep with your eyes open?”

Gimli tensed, suspecting a trap, but unable to see what the Elf meant.  “No . . .” he said cautiously.

“No.”  Legolas sighed.  “Nor have I ever tried to sleep with my eyes closed.  But now it seems that I am forced to it.”

Gimli laughed.  “I’ve never slept while blindfolded, Master Elf, but I’m tired enough to do it tonight.  What about all that great Elven control over mind and body?  H’m?  Can’t you just will yourself to sleep or meditate or something?”

“I could find reverie while walking, or making music, or working with my bow . . .” Legolas’ voice trailed off.  “Perhaps it is not my eyes that are needed.  If I could find harmony with the forest, it would be enough.”  There was a pause.  Then the Elf spoke firmly, as if coming to a decision.  “Haldir keeps watch, and I am blind.  I will try this, Master Dwarf, but I fear that you may not like it.”

There was a shifting of Legolas’ tunic as the Elf lay down, and Gimli could picture him folding his hands upon his chest, his face turned toward the night sky, though he could not see it.  Then the Elf began to sing under his breath.

It was so soft that Gimli could scarcely hear it, as he lay down upon his cloak, but it was there.  Like the song that Legolas had made during their walk through the wood, it had no words, indeed it seemed to be hardly more than a whisper of music upon the air.  The song was slow, and soft, and somehow deep, as if drawn from the depths of the forest around them.

Gimli felt grounded in the gentle melody, somehow secure in the knowledge that the Elf was there, that the Fellowship was there, and that the ground would not drop out from under him while he slept. 

“Oh,” he murmured, as sleep rolled over him in a wave borne upon the whisper of Legolas’ voice, “no, if that’s all, I don’t mind…” and he thought he heard a faint laugh in response.  But he was already dreaming.

*~*~*

Khazad:  the Dwarves.

Coming Soon:  Chapter 14.  In which Legolas has a much needed chat with our favorite Ranger, and Gimli gets some foreshadowing.

A/N: A few lines of dialogue were taken from Lothlórien, The Fellowship of the Ring, page 392 of the movie covered paperback edition.

Disclaimer: The characters, setting, and basic plot are all creations of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, who did the entire scene from getting up in the morning to leaving Cerin Amroth in four pages. My version is fifteen. Mwahahaha!

Chapter 14: To Walk Free

They started again early the next morning. Gimli awoke to the low twitters of birdsong overhead and a heated debate between the Hobbits nearby. There was a disconcerting moment when he could not open his eyes, and then he remembered. He threw off his dew-laden cloak and got to his feet, rubbing his face and stretching to work the kinks from his back. The ground was soft enough for sleeping, as he’d said to Legolas, but it still didn’t compare to a proper bed. He winced as a muscle in his neck twinged, and he rubbed it gently as he listened to the Hobbits.

“No, you can’t have any dried venison with breakfast; you ate it all yesterday while we were walking.” That was Sam.

“No I didn’t, I only had two strips for lunch, and we didn’t have elevensies at all yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that.” Pippin had the aggrieved tone of one who has suffered much. “Have you looked in Merry’s pack? Maybe he hid it in there.”

“I haven’t looked in any of our packs, because I can’t see, any more than you can,” Sam was evidently short of patience. “And there’s no use trying to find more anyway, because it’s gone.”

“What about those cakes that Haldir gave us?” Frodo had stepped in as peacemaker. “You still have some of those, don’t you Sam?”

“Yes, we’ve got enough for first breakfast, anyway, but it’d be nice to have something more substantial to go along with them, Mr. Frodo.”

“We’re in Lothlórien now, Sam.” Merry had evidently joined them, and he was in an expansive mood. “You have to think like an Elf! They don’t need substantial breakfasts. Be at one with your surroundings. Smell the air; hear the birds, the wind in the trees, the rustle of – ow! Pippin kicked me!”

“You should be more at one with your surroundings, Merry,” Pippin said. “Then you’d move out of the way and you wouldn’t get kicked.”

“Speaking of Elves,” Frodo said over his cousins’ scuffles, “where’s Haldir? And the guard? Didn’t they bring supplies for breakfast?”

“They are not far off, Master Baggins,” Legolas spoke from less than three feet away, and Gimli flinched in surprise. His sharp ears could discern the movements of the Hobbits, and a distant rustling of branches told him that the Men were somewhere in the woods close by. But Legolas made no noise that Gimli could hear.

The Elf’s customary stealth had been a minor annoyance before in the journey, as he had a nerve-wracking habit of appearing silently where Gimli least expected him, or dropping without warning from the trees to land almost on top of him. Gimli was certain that he did it deliberately. But blind as he was now, he had no way of knowing where Legolas might be, unless he spoke or sang, or unless he, Gimli, walked straight into him. The Elf was a menace.

“The border patrols are gathering,” Legolas continued. “Two small companies passed close by three hours before dawn, and now Haldir has gone to co-ordinate their patrols before they make for the eastern border. Our other guard is standing watch in the trees until his return.”

Gimli did not ask how the Elf knew all that, when to his knowledge they had both been sound asleep through the night. The Hobbits accepted Legolas’ explanation without question and turned their attention to the food packs. Gimli left them to it. At the moment he had a more pressing concern.

From the Hobbits’ words it seemed that no one was being permitted to remove the blindfolds yet, even to attend to basic necessities. This suspicion was confirmed by a disgruntled muttering to Gimli’s right as Boromir tramped into the clearing and sat down heavily. “This is ludicrous. What my father would say . . .”

Aragorn sounded resigned as he also sat down with a thump and rustle of leaves. “It isn’t that unreasonable, Boromir. From what Gandalf told me, Gondor’s laws have become even stricter than those of the Golden Wood.”

“Gondor’s laws make sense,” Boromir retorted. “Not allowing us to take off the blindfolds for even five minutes doesn’t make sense, it’s just, it’s just . . . inconvenient!”

“You managed all right.”

“I think I was in a patch of nettles.”

“There aren’t any nettles in Lothlórien.”

“It stings.”

“It can’t be. You’re imagining it.”

“Think you that my senses are imaginary? Did I imagine the dream that led me to Rivendell? Did I imagine the Halfling bearing Isildur’s Bane? Did I imagine –”

“Fine. I’ll give you some salve for it.”

“You aren’t coming near it!”

There was a musical laugh and Gimli turned his head instinctively toward it. The Elf had moved in front of them. “The hands of a king –” Legolas’ voice had a distinctly mischievous note. Aragorn groaned and there was a rustle of sudden movement and a thud followed by a peal of Elven laughter and a sharp yelp.

“Hey!”

“What happened?”

“Is someone hurt?”

“Someone hit me!”

Legolas was laughing so hard that he could scarcely speak. “My . . . my apologies, Master Took. Aragorn . . . Aragorn is . . . Aragorn is throwing things!”

Aragorn snorted, but he was laughing too. “Blame Legolas, Pippin. He brought it on himself.”

“But I’m the one that got hit!”

Legolas seemed to have regained some control. His voice was calmer as he spoke, this time from a greater distance. Gimli guessed that he had walked over to Pippin. “Here, let me feel . . . ah, it’s nothing much. Where is . . . oh, thank you Merry. I expect that Aragorn will be wanting this back now.”

His voice came closer to them again, and something thumped to the ground near Gimli’s feet. “Throwing your waterskin, Aragorn? Isn’t that rather wasteful?”

Aragorn grunted and there was a shifting of leaves as he felt for the container and picked it up. “It was sealed tightly. And you deserved it.”

“Then you should work on your aim. As Peregrin pointed out, I was not the one hit.”

“My aim is fine. You ducked.”

Legolas laughed again. “Then you should not make so much noise when you throw. Had I known you would hit Pippin, I would not have moved.”

“See, Pippin?” Merry said over the noise of Aragorn and Boromir jointly pelting Legolas with their waterskins, “be at one with your surroundings. Then you’d know when people are throwing things at you.”

Gimli relaxed and joined in the general amusement. Legolas’ laughter was contagious, and the Hobbits seemed to have regained some of their normal high spirits. Pippin actually attempted to tackle Merry, and the two Hobbits might have come to grief had they not been laughing too hard to do any damage. As it was they kicked leaves over the area where Sam was carefully sorting the morning’s rations, and Frodo had to restrain the gardener while Aragorn calmed the youths down and Boromir searched for the scattered cakes. Legolas was no help at all in the crisis, as he had collapsed with laughter near the edge of the clearing.

Gimli joined Boromir in seeking the fallen cakes, chuckling to himself as he felt through the soft drifts of leaves. He recognized that there was a slightly ragged edge to the Company’s amusement: this was more than anything a release of stress. For too long they had labored in darkness and fear, grief and weariness. In the daylight, with the birds singing overhead, even Gimli could appreciate the peace of Lothlórien. Unnatural though the woods surely were, there was at least no evil here. The blindfolds offered a paradoxical freedom: the Fellowship had no choice but to rely upon their Elven guards, and thus the long burden of watchfulness and tension was relieved.

The Hobbits, unaccustomed to the strain and grief of recent days, were the first to react. Gimli noted that Pippin, who along with Frodo had taken Gandalf’s death most hard, was now the most exuberant in teasing his older cousins. It was a relief to hear the young Hobbit laugh freely again, but Gimli resolved to stay alert to Pippin’s mood swings. In the wake of the grief and self-blame he had shown earlier, this light-heartedness could easily give way to hysteria. Frodo was more subdued than the others, though he did join in the laughter once Sam had relinquished his threat to hit Pippin with his skillet. He was older than the others, of course, and naturally more restrained, but Gimli could not help but wonder if something else were damping the Ring-bearer’s spirits.

The Men were more like himself: seasoned warriors who knew too well the burden of their quest to ever wholly relax. But they delighted in the cheer of their smaller companions and enjoyed the chance for merriment. In these darkening days, when agents of Sauron had encroached even upon the Lonely Mountain itself, any respite from the Shadow was to be treasured.

It was the Elf that confused him. All through their journey Legolas had been reserved, holding himself slightly apart from the others save for Aragorn and Gandalf. He was ever watchful, ever vigilant, seeming to take it as a personal duty to guard the Company at all times. But now that was cast aside and he laughed and joked as freely as the Hobbits. It seemed a wild change of character.

Perhaps only a few days before Gimli would have dismissed the archer’s antics as mere Elven vicissitude, as he had done when Legolas had climbed the pillar in the Dwarrowdelf. But he had journeyed with this Elf for weeks now in the Wild. He had fought both with him and beside him. Together they had seen the ruin of Khazad-dûm, and Gimli had not forgotten Legolas’ words when he had succumbed to grief at Balin’s tomb. His father would have said that it was an exercise in futility to seek reason for an Elf’s actions. But Gimli was not his father.

Perhaps Legolas’ behavior was understandable after all. He had been under greater strain than any of them in Moria. Gimli thought of the Elf’s razor edged watchfulness during their long journey through the Mines, the naked terror of his cry when they had faced Durin’s Bane. After all of that, and Gandalf’s death, it was perhaps not so strange that he should be fey now, after his first night’s sleep since before Caradhras.

Gimli considered all of this while he felt through the dry leaves for Sam’s scattered cakes. When he had found all that he could he set them on the Hobbit’s spread cloak and stood, brushing off his hands. It did not occur to him to question his new insight into the Elf’s behavior, any more than he would second-guess his musings about the Hobbits or the Men. Sometime in their journey his attitude had changed. Somewhere in the shared perils and grief of Khazad-dûm Gimli’s mind had opened, and in the stillness of Lothlórien his preconceptions of Elves as a whole had been tempered by his experience with Legolas as a person. He had no love for the archer, but he was slowly coming to understand him. It was a change so slight as to be unseen, like a hairline fracture in the foundation of a citadel. But this was a crack in the keystone of Gimli’s ideology, and it could crumble the close-held beliefs of millennia. Gimli did not notice.

He had a bigger problem. Haldir might not be present, but there was no telling where the other guard was. Somewhere above them, he supposed, and undoubtedly watching them now. And in any case he would not remove the blindfold. He had accepted it as part of his duty to the Ring-bearer, and though he had not forgiven Legolas for his role in that, he would not go free while the others were blind. Honor forbade it. And there too was pride: he would bear this hardship at least as well as the Elf. Which left the difficulty that his bladder had been signaling for the past few minutes: how was he to answer nature’s call while blindfolded?

Well, if the others could manage it he certainly could. Gimli had a fairly good idea of the clearing’s size now from the movements of his companions. He counted eight steps back to his bedroll between the mallorn’s roots and felt his way carefully around the large smooth trunk. He struck out to the right, away from the direction that Aragorn and Boromir had come from, hoping to avoid Boromir’s nettles. But there seemed to be little danger of those, for Aragorn was right. This forest was devoid of any type of undergrowth at all. Unnatural, Gimli thought as he groped his way between the pillared trunks. He felt ridiculous, and he was uncomfortably aware that there might be Elven eyes watching him even now. Well, let them stare. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

He found a spot between two large trees that seemed as sheltered as any and finished his task quickly, his shoulders hunched against the prickling sensation of prying eyes. By the time he reached the clearing again his fevered imagination had conjured dozens of Elves perched in the tree branches above, all pointing and snickering at him. With an effort of sheer will he refrained from tearing the blindfold off and stalked, stiff-legged and bristling, into the clearing. Ridiculous. What next, are we to crawl on hands and knees for their amusement? Ridiculous, ludicrous, stupid stubborn conceited . . .

He calmed somewhat as he returned again to the familiar voices of his companions. The sensation of being watched faded, and he relaxed further when Haldir joined them and immediately organized the breaking of camp, with no mention or indeed acknowledgement of Gimli at all.

Like all warriors Gimli was intimately familiar with the organization of his weapons and pack, and after weeks in the Wild even the Hobbits were able to gather their gear together swiftly despite the blindfolds. Swiftness, however, did not imply silence, and the Company was still showing the effects of the sudden release from stress and grief. The Hobbits bickered good-naturedly and continuously, despite having their mouths full of cake. Boromir commiserated quietly with Gimli about Elven paranoia, and Legolas composed a rhyme in Sindarin that made Frodo giggle and was met with stony silence from Aragorn. Gimli caught the word dunedain and guessed that it had something to do with Aragorn’s waterskin marksmanship.

But they set out again before the sun had warmed the early morning chill from the air. Legolas left off teasing the Ranger and began to sing softly as they left the clearing. Gimli found himself falling in naturally behind the Elf. Legolas had made no mention of their conversation the previous night, and Gimli did not bring it up either. What understanding they had shared was largely the result of sleep deprivation and whatever spell lay upon these woods, he thought, and it was best not to dwell upon what could not be helped.

Still, it was good to have the anchor of the Elf’s voice ahead of him. Gimli walked easily along the path, his shoulders back and his hands loose at his sides. Now that he was not forced to grope blindly through the trees his earlier tension faded. If there were Elves watching him they would see only another warrior of the Fellowship, no less confident in the wood than his companions. He had long experience deciphering direction from sounds in the dark, and even amongst the open trees he followed Legolas’ soft voice without hesitation. He accepted the continual song as one of his companion’s quirks, in this case a useful one. Gimli did not notice that in his newfound tolerance he had come to think of the archer as an individual, and no longer merely as an Elf. And it was not until much later that it occurred to him that Legolas might be guiding him deliberately.

*~*~*

It was noon, and the sun was high overhead, when they passed from the cool woods into an open area and stopped. Legolas could feel a change in the forest as they approached; the tree-song grew so deep and still that he could no longer follow it in vocal melody. Instead he sang a series of children’s songs from Mirkwood, ignoring the questioning murmurs this raised from Haldir and Aragorn.

There was something very different about this place. The forest’s voice was soft, muted to a slow rhythm that flowed into the deeper harmony of Ilúvatar’s Song, like a sun-warmed current upon the surface of an ocean. Power swelled as a tide to Ithil’s call, and he felt its resonance in the windless stir of the leaves overhead, in the hushed tremble of the earth beneath his feet.

So intent was he on these mysteries, straining his mind and senses to their utmost, that he did not hear the approaching war party until it had entered the meadow and was nearly upon them. Legolas stilled instantly upon catching the faint rustle of garments and the shift of the arrows in their quivers. He cut off his song in mid word and stepped quickly to the side, so that Gimli would not walk into him. “Aragorn,” he murmured, turning his head toward the Man as the rest of the Fellowship halted in confusion.

There came the creak of leather and chain mail as the Ranger felt his way past the Dwarf, and then his voice sounded close by Legolas’ ear. “What do you hear?”

“A large company of Elves approaches. The trees did not signal their approach, and they came swift and silent. They are armed.”

“Haldir?”

“He has gone forward to meet them. I do not know where the other guard is.”

Aragorn drew a soft breath and Legolas felt him turn back to face the others. “We have company. Likely they are members of the home guard, sent to join the border patrols. Stay alert, all of you, but remain calm. I do not think they mean us harm.”

“Frodo –” Boromir began, but at that moment Haldir rejoined them.

“Irthuil is leading reinforcements to the border,” the March-warden announced. “The marauding Orcs have been destroyed: they will not trouble Lothlórien again.” Legolas wondered at the other Elf’s certainty – in his experience, once agents of the Enemy had gained entry to an Elven realm, they never stopped trying to come back. “The remnant have scattered and are being pursued west toward the mountains. And,” Haldir paused, and Legolas could feel his intense gaze upon him, though he could not see, “there was one other. A small creature, hunched near the ground but it ran swiftly. It was among the Orcs, but it did not seem one of them.”

Legolas kept very still, careful to betray nothing by word or sign. Gollum was too bound up with the Ring, and Haldir too clever, to risk giving any clue as to the footpad’s identity. The March-warden had spoken of secrets, and here indeed was a secret Legolas would trust to none but the Fellowship. Aragorn spoke quickly, as if having the same thought and seeking to distract the guard’s attention, “Did they shoot it?”

“No.” Haldir’s focus expanded to take in the entire Fellowship. Legolas could envision him searching them each in turn, and he was silently grateful for the blindfolds. The Hobbits, in particular, were not trained to withstand scrutiny like this, and might have given away much in an unguarded look or questioning glance. But bound as the Company was there was little chance that even Elven eyes could discern anything important.

Haldir seemed to realize this, and he spoke briskly. “They did not know if it served the Orcs, or were a captive, or merely an unlucky traveler. It fled southward, down the Silverlode. Irthuil deemed it of little importance, and sent scouts to ensure that it left Lothlórien, but did not trouble about it further. A third of his company is pursuing the remaining Orcs, while the others go on to the northern borders. Also,” he continued, “they bring me a message from the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim. You are all to walk free, even the Dwarf Gimli. It seems the Lady knows who and what is each member of your Company. New messages have come from Rivendell perhaps.”

His voice took on an ironic lilt as he said this last, and Legolas wondered at the transparent excuse. What messenger could possibly traverse the blocked mountain paths, or go south all the way to the Gap of Rohan and north again to Lothlórien so swiftly? Either the March-warden was jesting to disguise his Lady’s power, or the Lady claimed friendship with an Eagle.

And further, there was his casual dismissal of the Orcs’ threat, and of Gollum. Legolas imagined Thranduil’s reaction if he had reported that an unknown creature had entered Mirkwood and he had let it go without capturing or killing it, but that he was fairly sure that it would leave again pretty soon on its own. He flinched involuntarily. Either this captain Irthuil enjoyed living dangerously or the Lord Celeborn was far more lenient than his northern kinsman. And with this power to protect his realm, Legolas thought, considering the deep peace all around them, surely he can afford to be. And just as surely we cannot.

He was brought sharply back to attention by a soft rustle of the grass as Haldir stepped toward him. Swiftly Legolas shook his head, taking a pace backwards. There was a pause, and he could feel the March-warden’s hesitation. Certainly his first inclination was to unbind the prince first, and just as surely Legolas was desperate to be free of the restricting cloth. But he shook his head again and gestured to where Gimli stood at his side. The Dwarf had borne the brunt of the guards’ suspicion and prejudice ever since they had entered Lothlórien, and Legolas knew the cost of the blindfolding to his pride. He would not admit any guilt for his role in binding the Dwarf, but it was only right that Gimli be freed first.

Apparently Haldir accepted his decision. After a moment the March-warden undid Gimli’s blindfold with a fair speech welcoming him to the Naith of Lórien. Legolas breathed softly in relief: from his limited experience, it seemed that Dwarves delighted in formal greetings of this type. He was glad to know that these Silvan Elves could apply their elaborate courtesies where they would be most appreciated.

Then Haldir slipped the blind from Legolas’ eyes, and he forgot all else in a rush of sheer joy. His first sensation was of the blessedly cool air washing over skin that had been covered and irritated by the hot cloth for so long. Then from the frustrating darkness there came light, so sharp and bright that it stung his eyes and made them water, but he could not look away. Colors overwhelmed him in a rush of greens and golds: the blaze of leaves veined amber in the warm sunlight, the verdant grass studded with white and gold stars. Niphredil, he thought, and marveled to see what hitherto had been remembered only in song.

The meadow sloped away before him, but to the left there rose a great mound with grass soft and new as if it were yet spring. It bore as a double crown the vast golden mellyrn in a ring circled by pillared trees of white, and it seemed to Legolas that their roots delved to the foundations of the earth, and their branches stretched up to brush the heavens.

Legolas caught his breath. Here was the source of this forest’s song, here was the heart that beat perhaps once in an Age, and pulsed with a blood so rich in memory that all else was drowned to insignificance. Every color was new and fresh, every leaf edged sharp as if it had come into being at the very moment of his eyes’ unveiling. And at the same time it was old, so old that time was forgotten and rendered meaningless, so that history and legend were made one with the eternal now. He could feel the strength of this place in the fiber of his being, and the ancient song thrummed within him and he felt suddenly so young, so young and insignificant before the weight of memory and years uncounted.

“Cerin Amroth,” Aragorn whispered, and Legolas looked toward him in surprise. The Ranger’s voice held a measure of mingled joy and grief that he had seldom heard from his friend before. Aragorn’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes were clouded.

The war party had slipped by them into the trees, many turning to look more closely at Gimli as they passed. Legolas supposed that they had likely never seen a Dwarf before, but to his mind that did not excuse their discourtesy. Fortunately Gimli ignored them.

The rest of the Fellowship spread out, taking advantage of the opportunity to rest. Boromir settled cross-legged among the fern at the edge of the field, his shoulders hunched as he picked at the grass. Merry and Pippin soon joined him. Freed from their blindfolds, the two young hobbits seemed to have doubled their usual energy levels. They apparently had taken it as a personal mission to cheer the dour Man, and before long Boromir was drawn into showing them his broadsword, and then laughing at Pippin’s attempt to wield it.

Frodo and Sam were more solemn, rubbing their eyes and murmuring softly as they gazed up at Cerin Amroth. “I feel as if I was inside a song, if you take my meaning,” Sam said.

Legolas smiled at that and reached for his waterskin. He had been singing all morning while they walked, and the water was a blessing to his parched throat. He took some time to return the container to his pack, using the delay as an excuse to study his smaller companions.

Surely no one, not even the Hobbits or the Dwarf, could stand in this place of memory without feeling its power. But he had not expected such perception from the gardener. Truly Hobbits were amazing creatures. And then his heart stuttered as he recalled that that had been one of Mithrandir’s favorite sayings.

But Haldir had also heard Sam’s remark, and he drew the pair away, leading them up the slope of Cerin Amroth. Legolas hesitated. In truth he wished to follow, to climb the mellyrn at the crown, for perhaps then he would understand the depths of their song. But Aragorn had cast himself down in the grass and was staring into space, his gaze distant as he absently turned the ring of Barahir round his finger. Something in his manner struck a chord of alarm in Legolas – his eyes were too dark, too close to the gleam that he had seen in them before, when Aragorn had admitted the temptation of the Ring. This was a place of memory more personal to Aragorn, and Legolas would not stand by if the Ring were drawing upon his vulnerability here.

And yet there was the Ring-bearer to consider as well. Haldir had been frustrated in his inquiries before, but it did not escape Legolas that the March-warden had now maneuvered so that he could question Frodo and Sam alone. More than his personal wishes, Legolas had a duty to see that the Hobbits were not tricked into betraying their Quest.

“Where are they going?” A rough voice growled beside him, and Legolas turned to see Gimli staring intently after Haldir and the Hobbits. A surge of relief flashed through him as he saw the answer to his dilemma.

“Haldir is taking them to see Cerin Amroth,” he answered. “Master Dwarf, would you…?”

Gimli glanced at him in brief surprise, but his attention was focused primarily on the potential threat. “Aye,” he grunted, and set off up the slope. Legolas watched as he clumped up the hill, his head lowered determinedly. The Dwarf could not climb up if Haldir took the Hobbits into the treetops, but he would stay near by. The March-warden could not help but be aware of his presence, and would not question Frodo and Sam too closely lest they report it back to the Dwarf. Legolas smiled. He could not have wished a better deterrent had he climbed up personally with them, for Haldir dared much in service of his realm, and likely would have pressed the issue even in the face of Legolas’ censure. But now the March-warden’s prejudice was working against him, for he would not risk drawing a Nogoth’s attention to his curiosity, lest Gimli think to use the Fellowship’s secret against him.

Games and games and more games, Legolas thought wryly. And you play them well, Haldir of Lórien. But do not think to match against Mirkwood. It is not through strength of arms alone that we keep the Shadow at bay.

It did not occur to him to question his trust in a Dwarf over his fellow Elf. Nor did he stop to wonder when Gimli had ceased being merely a Dwarf, and had become a companion.

Instead Legolas stretched out in the sunny grass beside Aragorn. Freed from his concern about Haldir, feeling young and fey before the ancient forest, he cast off his quiver and knives and arched his back, stretching in a luxuriant curve against the warm grass. His movement pulled Aragorn from his reverie, and the Man laughed softly.

“I meant to ask you, ‘Spiders in the Thickets,’ Legolas?”

Legolas grinned, his eyes closed and his face turned up toward the light. “It was that or ‘The Orc-maid and The Dragon.’ I did not wish to shock Master Baggins.”

“Hmm. Difficult choice. But given the option between Mirkwood drinking songs and children’s songs, I’d say the drinking song is less shocking. What kind of place lets children sing things like that?”

“‘Tra-la-la-lally, down here in the valley –’”

“Aargh!” Aragorn groaned and struck his shoulder. “Bad enough that I had to listen to that growing up. I think that Elrohir invented it just to tease me.”

Legolas laughed and sat up, shaking the grass from his hair. “No, my friend, he invented it to tease Arahad, your many times great grandfather. And then he and Elladan taught it to me.”

“I bet your father loved that.”

“H’m. He threatened to initiate another Kin-slaying.”

Aragorn laughed and fell silent. For a time they simply sat together, comfortable as old friends that did not feel the need to speak. Legolas played idly with the soft grass, twisting it through his long fingers without pulling it up. He could fall into the peace of this place, could lose himself in the timeless melody and there would be no war, no hurt. No strife could ever touch them here.

And yet . . . and yet there was something else. At the edge of his awareness, skirting the borders of that peace, the Shadow still lay. Had he climbed the mellyrn with Haldir, what would he see? The land of Lórien was still without stain, but Dol Guldur loomed to the north, and the woods beyond the river were twisted and black. Such is the difference between Lothlórien and Lasgalen, he thought, and shall I find peace here, while my people fight alone?

“Forty years.” Aragorn’s voice was soft as if he spoke to himself, but his words pulled the Elf from these dark thoughts. Legolas blinked and looked over at the Man. Aragorn sat with elbows resting on his drawn up knees, rubbing the ring of Barahir absently while he stared at the meadow before them.

Legolas tilted his head questioningly, waiting, and after a moment Aragorn continued. “Forty years have passed, and yet it looks the same. Nothing has changed.”

Legolas considered that for a moment. Aragorn seemed troubled by more than his words suggested. “Did you expect it to?”

“No. Yes.” Aragorn sighed. “I don’t know. But it seems strange, that it should be untouched when all the rest of the world is changed.”

This was very close to what Legolas had been thinking, and more than strange, it seemed bitterly unfair to him. But he said only, “You have met the Lady, Aragorn. Is it in truth so strange to you?”

The Man glanced at him, one eyebrow quirked. “Perhaps not. But I would not be so envious if I were you. The power that protects this land comes at a cost.”

“Thirty of our warriors died last year, Aragorn, defending Mirkwood from the Shadow. What cost is greater than that?”

“Maybe that of knowing that your time is over, and your lands will be lost, whether to the Dark Lord or no. Think you that Lothlórien will remain unchanged, Legolas, if Frodo succeeds in his quest?”

This was something that Legolas had considered before, and he did not answer. Perhaps Lothlórien and Imladris were the weaker for their dependence upon the Elven Rings. But sitting here, with the sun warm upon his face and the land utterly still and peaceful around him, it was hard to believe that they suffered much.

Aragorn sighed heavily. “I would not have it so. I would keep the Golden Wood untouched, and whole, were it in my power. I would save Rivendell, and Greenwood as well.” His next words were a mere breath, soft as the breeze that ruffled their hair, “I would save her.”

Legolas watched him closely, but Aragorn did not look up. They were coming close now to the heart of Aragorn’s unease, Legolas thought, but still there was more. And better that he learn the truth now, for if Aragorn fell all of Middle-earth might follow. “How would you save her, Aragorn? What power would you claim?”

Aragorn lifted his head and met Legolas’ gaze. His eyes glittered with fierce challenge. “I claim nothing. Do not think to test me, son of Thranduil. I have done nothing, nothing to merit suspicion, and I am not subject to you!”

Legolas was taken aback, but he spoke evenly. “Haven’t you? Not two days ago you admitted that the Ring –”

“Quiet!” Aragorn hissed. “Will you speak of that here? I trusted you as a friend, and you turn my words against me!”

“Nay,” Legolas protested. “I only –”

“Only what, Legolas? Only tried to catch me, only tried to force me to admit folly? And what then? Then would you say that the Heir of Isildur is weak, and take the Ring for yourself?”

Aragorn’s face was twisted, his voice venomous. Legolas stared at him in shock. This was not the Aragorn he knew, the friend he had trusted for nearly 70 years. The Man’s anger was too quick, too hot – out of proportion to Legolas’ query. It spoke of Aragorn’s personal doubts, far greater than any external accusation. This was the Ring, it had to be.

But Aragorn continued, his words dripping with suspicion and malice. “Yes, I see it now. So clever, Legolas. You would take the Ring, for safekeeping of course. And who would suspect? Who better to bear it than an Elf? And what then? Would you bring it to Mirkwood, and give your father another trinket for his treasury?”

Legolas leaped to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. Whether he be led by the Ring or no, Aragorn was treading upon dangerous ground. He glared down at the seated Man and his voice was deadly soft. “You presume much, son of Arathorn.”

Aragorn jumped up, his hands clenched. “Do I? Can you claim that you have not thought it? You covet the power in Lothlórien, Legolas. Do not pretend otherwise. And here is a greater power, within your grasp. You could destroy Dol Guldur. You could make Greenwood great once more – you could cover all the world with your forests. The Elves need not flee Middle-earth, your warriors need not die, your family –”

“Enough!” Legolas spat. “I sicken of these games, Aragorn. I do not want the Ring. I have never wanted it. It is foul with an evil that turns my stomach, and if you cannot see that then you are even blinder than your ancestors. You know what it is, and still you are tempted! Isildur’s betrayal is nothing compared to what you would do!”

Aragorn struck, driving toward Legolas’ jaw, but the Elf was faster. Instinctively Legolas blocked, one hand catching Aragorn’s fist and the other striking at his elbow in a move too quick for mortal eyes to see. But he caught himself at the last instant, and stopped a heartbeat from breaking the Man’s arm.

For an eternity caught between one breath and the next they stood in frozen tableau, staring at one other in shocked silence. A curlew cried once, twice in the distance and was still. The freshening breeze stirred the trees and caught in long tendrils of Legolas’ hair.

Then Legolas drew a shuddering breath and stepped back, releasing Aragorn’s hand. “I did not mean to . . . forgive me, Aragorn. I should not have spoken so.”

Aragorn closed his eyes for a long moment and bowed his head. “No, it is I . . . I am sorry, Legolas. I know not what came over me.”

“Don’t you?” Legolas whispered.

Aragorn passed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. “The Ring. It has to be the Ring.” He opened his eyes, and they were clear. Full of pain, but the hateful glitter was gone. He was Aragorn again. But his voice was heavy with self-loathing. “I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I could resist it. But you are right. You are right. I am weak, and I endanger us all.”

Legolas sighed wearily. Suddenly the entire cycle of grief and anger, guilt and pain, seemed too much to be bothered with. “Foolish mortal. When will you learn to listen to me? I have told you twice before: you are not alone. Your strength is great, and if you will trust us it will be greater still.”

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “It seems that the Elves are full of wisdom today. Tell me, Legolas, whom should I trust? Would you claim friendship with all the Fellowship?”

The Man was teasing, but there was an edge to his words, and Legolas remembered the challenge of before. Do not ask me to trust the Fellowship until you can do the same. For an instant he was uncertain, but it was not the Dwarf that gave him pause. Instead he saw the figure of a Man outlined in dim light, sitting watch in a great hall miles beneath the earth. Boromir. His heart cried out in warning, and it was all he could do not to look aside to where the Man tussled playfully with Merry and Pippin.

Legolas pushed this doubt aside. It was not for him to judge, when surely he had served the Ring’s purpose as well. He thought with shame of his cruel words to Aragorn, and to Gimli. But he met Aragorn’s eyes fearlessly. “I would. I have journeyed now with Men and Dwarves and Hobbits, and I would be honored to claim friendship with them all.”

There. It was said, and he could not take it back. And more than that: it was true.

Aragorn studied him for a long moment, but did not challenge him. Instead he looked down, and rubbed the edge of his thumb against his ring. “But is it enough?” he murmured.

“Was it enough before?”

The Man looked at him in confusion, and Legolas bent swiftly and plucked a tiny bloom of elanor from the grass. He turned the delicate stem in his fingers, aware of Aragorn’s gaze upon it. “You have the love of the Evenstar, Aragorn. You say that this glade has not changed from the time of her promise to you, and the flowers now are as bright as they were then.”

“I did not ask it of her!” Aragorn protested. “I would have prevented it if I could. You would remind me now of my further failing, that I have brought death to the one I love –”

“No.” Legolas said, and looked intently into his eyes. “I would remind you that she made that pledge freely, knowing full well your strength and your weakness. She loves you, and she trusts you, as I do. All these long years it has been enough.” He took Aragorn’s hand and pressed the flower into his rough palm. “And now you have not only our love, and your own strength, but the Fellowship as well. Is it not enough?”

Aragorn hesitated, looking at the blossom he held. “Without Gandalf…”

Legolas threw up his hands in exasperation. “Still you do not listen! Arwen did not give her love to Gandalf. She gave it to you. She trusted you. Though by Elbereth I cannot see why, for some reason she believes in you, stubborn, unwashed, sweaty, hairy, clumsy mortal Man though you are!”

Aragorn laughed. “Ever the Elves are so courteous and charming. Stay your sweet words, Legolas, or my pride will overwhelm me.”

“Hmph. Fear not, elvellon. That would be the least of your deficiencies.” Then, sobering, he said again more softly, “Is it not enough, Aragorn?”

Aragorn sighed. “I do not know. But . . . I think that it is more than any Man could ever merit, or ever wish for. Thank you, mellon nîn.”

Legolas smiled and clasped his arm briefly, and then stepped back. Haldir and the Hobbits were returning, followed closely by Gimli. The Company would be leaving soon. But as Legolas moved to collect his gear he said, loudly enough for Aragorn to hear, “At last. I think that I would have better luck getting through your thick skull if I used one of my arrows.”

Aragorn smiled faintly and looked again at the flower he held. Gently he traced one blackened nail along the delicate golden petals. Legolas paused, and watched closely, but Aragorn stood straight and strong and his eyes were very bright. “Arwen vanimelda, namárië!” he whispered. Something eased in Legolas’ chest, and he smiled.

*~*~*

Nogoth literally “stunted one,” a not very nice Sindarin word for a Dwarf.

Ithil the moon

Coming Soon: Chapter 15. More tree-houses for Gimli.

A/N: Much of the dialogue in this chapter is lifted directly from Tolkien himself. I’ve left the Master’s words intact, but the descriptions are my own. See The Mirror of Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring, page 397-401 of the movie covered Ballantine Books edition. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Angel.

Disclaimer: Still Tolkien’s. Sigh.

Chapter 15: The Lady of Light

They came to Caras Galadhon well after dark. After one tantalizing glimpse of immense golden towers in the distance, Haldir had led them on what seemed an endless hike through the woods, wending on and on in a vast circular path until the Hobbits were visibly dragging their feet and even Gimli’s strong legs ached.

The March-warden claimed that this was necessary because the city had no gates to the north, and they must circle all the way to the south to enter. Gimli had his doubts about this last – what was wrong with using a west gate? Surely even Elves would not be so foolish as to build a city with no exits at all.

But at least it was believable that they had no entrance to the north. These Lórien Elves seemed to have shut themselves away from all dangers of Middle-earth, and doubtless they would not have a door toward the dark tower above their border.

He glanced at Legolas as he thought this. The Mirkwood Elf’s jaw was set, and his face betrayed nothing at Haldir’s explanation.

Gimli felt a fleeting sympathy for the prince. He had lived long years in Erebor, and though Dol Guldur was far to the south, the Dwarves were too practical to ever dismiss its threat. Indeed that danger had come into stark relief in recent months, when the Black Riders had ventured to treat at their very doorstep. And though they did not acknowledge it openly, every Dwarf and Man of Esgaroth knew that the Wood-elves stood as the last line between them and the Shadow of the tower.

If only they were not so blasted prideful, Gimli thought. One could almost like them for it.

Stars were glinting between the black outlines of the branches overhead, and the Elves had lit silver lamps that cast a gentle radiance as they walked, when the Company passed at last through the south gate. Haldir’s talk of a “city” had given Gimli hope of something more civilized than the flets, or at least more solid. But this was dashed as they came nearer to the place. What he had taken for towering spires were now revealed as only more trees, larger than any he had ever seen, with vast smooth trunks that gleamed white as marble in the dark. But they were only trees. There was no sign of houses or any habitation that he could see, save for the massive south gates that swung ponderously open at Haldir’s touch.

The wood was eerily still, but as they walked Gimli could feel countless unseen eyes upon them, and it seemed to him that there was something, some whispered speech or music just beyond the range of his ears. He hunched his shoulders and studied the path beneath his feet, trying to walk silently.

“Where is everyone?” Pippin whispered.

“Look up,” Frodo said in a hushed voice.

Gimli looked up, and his heart stuttered painfully in his chest. The giant silvered trunks stretched endlessly above them, and their outstretched boughs wove in latticed patterns far overhead. Thousands of lights flickered red and gold and blue and silver like stars come down to twine the branches. Countless flets were woven seamlessly amongst them, seeming a part of the trees themselves. Gimli caught only the merest glimpse of their polished wood, the flowing railings and carved pillars that followed the natural growth of the trees, and enhanced them. More tree houses, he thought, and suppressed a groan, but the craftsman within him could not help but admire the blend of functionality and form in the graceful structures. They were far too flimsy, and far too high off the ground for his taste, but they were beautiful.

There were Elves moving amongst them as well, and the golden leaves gleamed in their soft radiance. And how many more were there, unseen, watching him? Gimli took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. I can do this. They’re only Elves. I can do this.

Haldir led them to the base of the greatest mallorn they had yet encountered, with a trunk so huge that thirty Dwarves with arms outstretched might not have circled its base. Gimli tilted his head back to look up, and his stomach lurched.

“At least it isn’t rope,” Boromir muttered, and when Gimli looked at him he gave a sickly smile.

The ladder was not rope, but neither was it the solid stair that Gimli might have wished. It was broad and smooth, clearly as permanent a structure as these Elves ever made, and yet so frail and weak to Gimli’s eyes. Looking at the massive tree bole that stretched up straight and smooth as silver glass until the first boughs broke away some fifty feet above them, Gimli understood why these tree-dwellers kept a ladder here. He doubted that even Legolas could have climbed such a tree unaided.

Three Elves stood at the ladder’s base, clad in grey mail with their hands resting on their sword hilts. Haldir paused to speak to one of them before turning back to the Fellowship. “Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel,” he said. “It is their wish that you ascend and speak to them.”

Gimli wondered briefly at the possibility of this Celeborn and Galadriel rather descending, instead, but one of the guards blew upon a small horn, and the call was answered three times in clear faint tones from far above. “I will go first,” Haldir said. “Let Frodo come next and with him Legolas. The others may follow as they wish.”

And if we do not wish? Gimli thought, but with a last, faintly condescending suggestion that they might rest if they had need, Haldir set off up the stair. Frodo followed him slowly, and Legolas came directly after. The Elf seemed to pace his steps to match the Ring-bearer’s, and Gimli noted that he kept one hand ready to catch the Hobbit if he should slip.

Boromir and Aragorn held a hurried consultation, and the result was that Merry and Pippin followed with Boromir just behind, and then Sam and Aragorn. Each of the Men was poised to aid the Hobbits in any difficulty.

Which left Gimli to come last of all. Acutely conscious of the armed Elves watching him, he wiped his palms swiftly on his leggings and took firm grasp of the ladder. He breathed a quick prayer to Mahal and began to climb. The ladder did not sway as the rope had done, but it shivered at each thump of his heavy boots, and did not assure him of its makers’ skill.

The steps too were unnervingly far apart, spaced for Elven legs with disconcertingly large gaps through which he could see the smooth trunk before him, and the ground far, far below. Gimli locked his eyes directly ahead and took each rung in a white knuckled grip as he climbed. His tongue felt dry and shriveled to the roof of his mouth. His palms were slick with sweat, and he stopped again and again to wipe them on his tunic before taking the next step. He felt as though all the weight of his chain mail and weapons and pack were dragging him backward, pulling him from the meager safety of the ladder, if indeed the ladder itself did not come free of the tree and fall away beneath him. Elven architecture. My life depends on Elven architecture. Lord Mahal preserve me.

They stopped twice along the way to rest the Hobbits’ legs, pausing on the small flets that were scattered amongst the branches all along the ladder’s length. Climbing was bad enough, but stopping on these flimsy structures was worse yet. Gimli could feel the horrible drop below him, the vast empty space all around. It took every ounce of his courage and stubborn pride to wait while the others recovered, to then wait further while they climbed up ahead of him, and then finally to force his hands and legs to carry him yet higher.

Finally, finally they reached the crest. The tree did not end here, but continued on in a bole like a great pillar, narrower now but still large, going yet higher upward into a cloud of arching golden leaves. But the ladder opened into a vast flet that stretched like a deck before them.

Gimli took the last step on legs that trembled and jerked with fatigue. He could have simply collapsed on the blessedly smooth floor, surrounded by even more blessedly solid walls. But instead he straightened as befit a descendent of Durin, and looked about with an outer calm that belied the pounding of his heart.

The room – hall, he supposed it must be called, though it was too light and fragile seeming for the word as he knew it – was filled with Elves. They all fell silent as the Company came in, and he could feel them staring at the Men, at the Hobbits, at him. He stared back at them with as much pride as he could muster, and tried not to wince as he carefully flexed the cramp from his fingers.

Two chairs were seated beneath a golden bough before the tree bole, and here the Lord and Lady stood to greet them. Gimli gave them a cursory glance, but he was largely preoccupied with keeping his knees from giving way before all these Elves. He tried not to think of the long climb they would have to make to get down again.

But the Lord, Celeborn, had drawn Frodo aside, and he greeted each of the others as they came onto the flet. Gimli’s scattered attention was caught as he called Aragorn by name and made reference to some journey he had made here long ago. The Ranger placed his hand over his heart and bowed, Elf-fashion, to each of them.

The Hobbits, and Boromir, also bowed when the Lord greeted them. But when it came Legolas’ turn the Mirkwood prince stepped forward and dropped gracefully to one knee, bowing his head. “Welcome son of Thranduil,” Celeborn said. “Too seldom do my kindred journey hither from the north.”

“Your welcome honors us, my Lord,” Legolas replied, rising to his feet. “Alas that darkness of these times has constrained our opportunities for travel. Fair Lothlórien is a blessing to behold.”

There was something in the way he said this that made Gimli pause to look more closely. Lord Celeborn raised one elegant brow, and for a long moment he and Legolas locked gazes in silence. Then a corner of Celeborn’s mouth quirked. “Thranduilion indeed,” he murmured.

Legolas bowed again. “Hir nîn,” he said.

Gimli was not certain, but he thought that Legolas might have just criticized one of the great Elf lords of Middle-earth. His heart warmed at the thought.

Then the Lord turned to him, and he tensed in anticipation. What welcome could he expect here? But Celeborn spoke warmly. “Welcome Gimli son of Glóin! It is long indeed since we saw one of Durin’s folk in Caras Galadhon. But today we have broken our long law. May it be a sign that though the world is now dark better days are at hand, and that friendship shall be renewed between our peoples.”

A low murmur swept through the watching Elves and Gimli blinked in surprise. But there was no challenge in the Elf lord’s words, and his grey eyes were clear and kind. Gimli felt as though the world had skewed slightly on its axis. After the disdain of the guards, and the long march blindfolded and shamed, and the nerve-wracking climb up into the tree-tops, he hardly knew how to respond to this unexpected courtesy. Finally he bowed low, feeling the ache in his back and legs.

“At your service, my Lord,” he said, but his mind was a whirl of confusion, and he scarcely heeded what he said, or indeed spoke loudly enough for the others to take note.

Chairs were brought, and they sat down at last in a half-circle before the Lord and Lady. Gimli sighed in relief at the easing of his weary muscles, and scarcely cared that the overly large chair meant that his feet barely touched the floor. He wished briefly for his pipe. But then Celeborn began to question them about their journey, and he came to full attention.

Aragorn recounted their journey from Rivendell, the blocked attempt of Caradhras and the passage through Moria, though he made no mention of their purpose. The Elves cried aloud in shock and grief when he told of Gandalf’s death, and Celeborn demanded a more detailed account. A knot formed in Gimli’s stomach as Aragorn spoke of the Chamber of Mazarbul, and the fire, and the bridge, and finally the demon.

“An evil of the ancient world it seemed,” said Aragorn, “such as I have never seen before. It was both a shadow and a flame, strong and terrible.”

“It was a Balrog of Morgoth,” Legolas said, and his eyes were very dark. “Of all Elf-banes the most deadly, save the One who sits in the Dark Tower.”

Gimli shuddered at the word, but he could not remain silent. Legolas called it an Elf bane, and so it was, but this was a horror more personal to his kin, and he would not let his people’s history be ignored, painful though it was to speak of it. “Indeed I saw upon the bridge that which haunts our darkest dreams,” he said softly. “I saw Durin’s Bane.”

Celeborn stood in a swift, agitated motion, his eyes flashing. “Alas!” he said. “We long have feared that under Caradhras a terror slept. But had I known that the Dwarves had stirred up this evil in Moria again, I would have forbidden you to pass the northern borders, you and all that went with you.”

Gimli’s head jerked up in shock, and he stared hard at the Elf lord. But Celeborn continued, his voice now soft as he turned away. “And if it were possible, one would say that at the last Gandalf fell from wisdom into folly, going needlessly into the net of Moria.”

At that Gimli leaped to his feet, his hand reaching for his axe. Let these mighty Elves insult him, even insult his kin – that was to be expected. But to insult Gandalf, Gandalf who had guided them, who had fought for them, who had sacrificed at last his very life to save them while this Elf lord sat in his peaceful kingdom and cast judgment upon him – that was not to be borne! The other members of the Fellowship had also tensed, and Boromir made as if to rise, but Aragorn grabbed his arm. Legolas had not moved, but every line of his body was drawn taut, and he stared hard at Celeborn.

But before Gimli could move, or the others say anything, the Lady spoke. Gimli had heard her before, when she had talked of Gandalf being veiled from her sight, but he had not paid such Elven mysticism much heed. But now she spoke in a voice of command, and he drew up short.

“He would be rash indeed that said that thing,” Galadriel said, and her voice was low and grave, and threaded with deep power that sent a chill up Gimli’s spine. “Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. Those that followed him knew not his mind and cannot report his full purpose. But however it may be with the guide, the followers are blameless. Do not repent of your welcome to the Dwarf.”

Celeborn turned to look at her, and for a long moment they seemed to share some silent communication. Then the Lord sat down again, but he did not look at Gimli. The Lady went on, her voice gentle as she touched her husband’s arm. “If our folk had been exiled long and far from Lothlórien, who of the Galadhrim, even Celeborn the Wise, would pass nigh and would not wish to look upon their ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons?”

She looked then full into Gimli’s eyes, and he found himself sinking back into his seat before the clear light of her gaze. Her voice was soft, and sweet with sorrow as the fall of gentle rain upon an arid land. “Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm in Elder Days before the fall of mighty kings beneath the stone.”

Gimli stared at her, his face gone slack with shock. Never had the names of the ancient tongue sounded so fair as they did now, given in her voice. He met her gaze, and felt himself falling into the depths of her eyes. There was light in them, and peace, and understanding, and he felt it as a balm upon the deep ache of his heart. Never had he been so kindly understood, so perfectly forgiven, as when he looked now into the loving eyes of one who might have been his enemy.

In that instant the deep-laid cracks of his world’s foundation gave way, and all of Arda as he knew it crumbled beneath him and reformed, and he fell full into a world new made of the shattered fragments. In his eyes’ unveiling he saw the Lady before him as if for the first time, and it seemed to him that her hair was like a river of molten gold, and her skin shone as the light of dawn upon the mountain snows, and her eyes were deep with the wisdom of all the ages.

He rose to his feet and bowed low, feeling the words clumsy on his tongue, ill suited to her beauty, or the love he bore her. “Yet more fair is the living land of Lórien,” he said, “and the Lady Galadriel is above all the jewels that lie beneath the earth.”

She smiled, and he sat down again, feeling the blush heat his cheeks. But he did not care that the Elves murmured together, or that the other members of the Fellowship were looking at him in astonishment. Were it possible, she was even more beautiful when she smiled.

*~*~*

There was a long silence. Legolas glanced about, faintly amused by the reactions of the surrounding Elves. Gimli had surprised him before in the course of their journey, and he had learned not to assume too much about what the Dwarf might say or do in a given circumstance. But never had he imagined that Gimli was capable of such fair speech, much less that he would speak so to a Lady of the Eldar. The revelation was doubly shocking to these Elves of Lórien, who had not the benefit of his experience with Dwarves, or at least with this particular Dwarf.

Lord Celeborn finally broke the spell, apologizing graciously for his hard words. “I spoke in the trouble of my heart,” he said. “I will do what I can to aid you, each according to his wish and need, but especially that one of the little folk who bears the burden.”

Legolas broke from his musings and came instantly to full attention, and he felt Aragorn stiffen beside him. Would they speak so openly of the Ring here?

But the Lady deflected the matter, and spoke instead of the Long Defeat, and the gathering of the White Council. Legolas studied her with narrowed eyes. His father had sat upon the Council at some few of its infrequent meetings, and had ever come away frustrated at its seemingly willful impotence. Four times had the Council met in the Third Age, and only when Saruman had feared the One Ring’s discovery had it done anything to aid Mirkwood’s fight against Dol Guldur.

Perhaps it was as Galadriel said: that had they followed her Mithrandir would have been appointed head of the Council, and things would have gone different. But head of the Council or no, he thought, Saruman was only one voice, and Legolas sensed in the Lady the pure resonance of one who had seen the Light of the Trees.

There was serene power in her, a quiet strength like that he had felt in Mithrandir and lord Elrond, and that spoke more to him of Lothlórien’s secrets than all of Haldir’s veiled words had done. The bearer of an Elven Ring was not left to chance, and the wisdom of the Noldor was not lightly disregarded. Did she pretend that the Council would be so blind, had the Shadow stretched over Lórien rather than Mirkwood? She spoke of the Long Defeat, but her land was yet at peace.

But then she fell silent, and turned her clear eyes upon them one by one, and Legolas felt as though all the slow deep power of this wood were come to bear and focused in the intensity of her gaze. Of the Hobbits, Frodo stood longest before her, but even he soon shivered and looked away. Gimli met her eyes for a long moment, coming to his feet and standing proudly before her. But then a slow blush crept up under the ruddy hue of his beard, and he blinked and bowed quickly, sitting back in his chair with downcast eyes.

Boromir lifted his chin as she turned to him, and it seemed to Legolas that her eyes hardened, and bore into the Man like bright chips of diamond ere he looked aside, ashen faced and trembling.

Then she came to him, and looked long into his eyes. His heart stilled, and his breath ceased as his mind opened and he felt his spirit’s tone come in harmony with hers. And at her will their tone changed, so that without words exchanged his thought turned toward the Ring.

But It came as a harsh discord in the Song, and Legolas shied back. He broke away, pulling out of her resonance, and felt himself standing again on the flet before her.

They were separate now, but still the faint harmony remained, and her thought flashed bright between them.

You think ill of me, Thranduilion.

He scarcely dared to think, locked in her gaze, but there could be no secrets now. I am confused, my Lady.

But you would give counsel, rather than seek it.

I do not pretend to do either, my Lady.

And yet you think it nonetheless. There was no condemnation in her thought, only calm assertion that gave no chance for doubt. He felt the depth of the Song within her, and knew that it was useless to pretend any longer.

It seems strange to me, he thought finally, that one people alone should fight that which threatens us all.

Her eyes darkened, and he felt the long weight of the ages in them. You are very young, my prince. You would forget that the One you fight is only a servant of the Great Enemy that we have known since before the stars were kindled. You imagine that the War is fought with blades alone.

Forgive me, my Lady. But Legolas did not look away. I would not forget such things, for I have felt the terror of the ancient world, and I saw Mithrandir fall before it. But my people are dying now.

Then will you not go to them? His heart clenched suddenly at her thought. Will you abandon them, when their need is great?

He felt himself go deadly still. What do you intend, my Lady?

You speak of your people’s sacrifice. But you have within your grasp a power that could change their fortunes in this War.

The world hushed, time stilled, and there was nothing but her eyes, and the awful truth she saw. In his mind he heard again Aragorn’s words, “You could make Greenwood great once more…” and he knew that she heard them as well. But he answered truthfully, and stronger than the doubts of his heart there was the stubborn pride of a son of Thranduil. We do not require aids of the Enemy. The Ring cannot help us.

And yet you would covet that which guards Lothlórien.

He did not answer, for he could not deny the truth she saw in his heart. You cast judgment upon us, prince of Mirkwood, because to your eyes we are strong, and we do not share that strength with you. You cannot see how we envy you.

Legolas frowned, looking with confusion into the gentle sorrow of her gaze, and she smiled faintly. Even so does the falcon upon the falconer’s glove envy the wild hawk its flight, though it flies before the hunter’s arrows. But the hawk at least may yet escape. Whatever end may come of the Ring-bearer’s Quest, our fate remains unchanged. Think now, Thranduilion, were I to come to Lasgalen, would your father welcome that which I bear?

He hesitated, unsure of her meaning, and she continued. Oropher led his people alone at Dagorlad rather than follow the high king’s banner. Rash we called him, but he would rather die free than live thrall to another’s command. Think you that his son would now give over his land to our rule, even though it be an abode of spiders?

Legolas tensed. He could not conceive of Thranduil forsaking the oath he had sworn to his people, nor the proud Wood-elves accepting a Lady of the Noldor, even though she be wed to Celeborn the Wise. She knew this. What then could she gain from this game? I do not ask for your rule, Lady, nor even your protection. Only for your aid against that which threatens us all.

But it would come to be the same in the end, my prince. The deep grief of her thought nearly overwhelmed him. The Rings of the Elves do not glory in power or war. Yet you would have me stretch out my hand to the DarkTower, and make its realm as to my own. Think you then that it would stop there?

Legolas looked at her, and felt the power within her, and a chill came over him like a cloud cast over the sun. I know little of Rings or ancient powers, my Lady, he thought finally. But I do know that two warriors are greater than one, and the wardens of the Golden Wood are skilled in blade and bow. I would ask for friendship between our peoples.

She was still, and he felt again her thought seeking deep within him. Then suddenly she smiled. Look to your friends, Hir Legolas. For in friendship may lie the hope of us all.

Then she looked away, to Aragorn, and Legolas sagged slightly in the release of a breath he had not known he held. He watched as she held Aragorn in her gaze, and his heart pounded, though he would have denied that if asked. The Lady was seeking their responses to the Ring, that much was certain, and he thought of the strange glint in Aragorn’s eyes, the loathing and despair with which he had condemned himself.

But Aragorn stood tall and strong before the Lady, and his clear eyes met hers fearlessly. It seemed a long time that they stood thus, but Aragorn did not look away, and finally the Lady smiled, and stepped back. The Fellowship was released to seek their rest.

*~*~*

Hir nîn: my lord

Coming Soon: Chapter 16. More diplomacy for Legolas, and Gimli engages in blatant Elf worship. Hey, it’s canon.

A/N: Many thanks to my beta, Angel, who helped me clarify that there actually was a point to the past fifteen chapters of this story.

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien created these wonderful characters, and their whole complex relationship from enemies to friendship. I’m just filling in the gaps.

Chapter 16: The Beginning

It was a long, long climb back down to the ground. If I live to get out of these woods, Gimli swore to himself, I’ll never set foot in a tree again. Never. And no more ladders, either.

But at last they reached the soft earth again, and Haldir led them to a small pavilion that had been erected some distance from the path and was, by some miracle, set firmly on the ground.

The Hobbits sighed in relief and immediately set about unpacking their cloaks and bedrolls. Sam actually dragged Frodo by main force from where he had been standing alone at the edge of the trees and made him sit down with the others.

Elves brought them soft couches to lie on, and food and drink, and cushions and silks and wood for a fire and still more cushions. Far more Elves came to help than seemed really necessary, until there was a veritable crowd of them around whispering together and staring at Gimli and the Hobbits. Haldir finally shooed them off and bowed his leave to the Company.

There was a brief murmur of voices in the trees as the Lothlórien Elves pressed Haldir with questions, but that soon faded as they moved away. The forest was still with the deep quiet of the winter night, silent save for the soft melody of Elven song overhead.

For the first time since they had entered Lothlórien, the Fellowship was alone. Sam kindled a small fire and they sat around it, the warm light flickering over them and casting the surrounding wood into blackness. They talked quietly for a time about the interview with the Lord and Lady, and the day’s journey, and their first night in the treetops. None seemed willing to look back farther than that.

A strange melancholy filled Gimli. He felt unsettled, as though he were upon a hill of friable shale that might crumble away at any moment. All the comfortable truths he had known, fundamental to the way he saw the world, had been swept away by the Lady’s gaze like summer grass before a fire. And he had nothing with which to replace them.

Elves are foolish. But she was wise.

Elves are flighty. But she was serene.

Elves are capricious. But she was constant.

Elves hate Dwarves. But she had welcomed him, and there had been no hate in her eyes, no scorn or condemnation. There had been only love, and acceptance, and peace.

Never trust an Elf. But he loved her.

He loved her. He wanted nothing more than to look upon her, to worship her in the quiet depths of his heart. With all the passionate intensity of the Dwarves, the full extreme of his emotions, he loved her. He would have given anything, done anything, to please her. But at the first test, he had failed.

She had looked into him with her deep eyes, and though no words had passed between them, he had felt her intention. And his mind had turned toward the Ring.

Strange, he had not truly given it much thought during their journey. He was focused on the daily necessities of life in the Wild: protecting the Hobbits, hunting food, avoiding the Enemy’s spies, countering Legolas’ slurs. After that night in the Great Hall of the Dwarrowdelf he had become wary, and watched for the Ring’s effects upon the Company, especially Boromir. But he had not considered its effect upon himself.

Yet now he saw Khazad-dûm restored, and its many pillared halls filled with light and laughter and the ring of hammer on stone. And it was great, greater even than it had been in ancient days, for its realm stretched through all the deep caverns of Middle-earth. For an instant it filled his mind and heart: the exile was ended! The agents of the Enemy were destroyed, and his fallen kin honored with tombs wrought in marble that would endure through all the ages. The great doors stood open in friendship, and the peoples of Middle-earth came freely to trade, and all were awed by the beauty and might of his people’s glory.

And then Gimli had shrugged, and pushed the vision aside. It was not real. It could never be real, and most certainly not by work of the Ring. He was a Dwarf, with a Dwarf’s bedrock grounding in fact, and though he would fight for his people, he would not be swayed by any such flight of fancy.

But he could not help but think that, were it possible, the Ring might make a gift worthy of Galadriel. The Lady had the strength to keep it safe, he was certain, more than any other in Middle-earth. Were he to have it, he would give it to her, if it seemed fair upon her hand. She had not known his exact thought, for there were no words, but he had felt her intention sharpen at this, and reach deeper within him.

And she had seen the love in his heart, and the feeling came to him of mingled warmth and curiosity – could a Dwarf claim to care for an Elf, even for the Lady of the Golden Wood? Then his mind had turned without his will to the long years of tales told under the mountain of Elven arrogance and lies, and of his own scorn of Legolas on their Quest.

And what then of Legolas? Gimli thought of the Elf’s words at Balin’s tomb, when he had dragged him, Gimli, to safety. It was no failure of yours. But it was. Even then Legolas had reached out to him, but he had refused to see. The Elf had changed, he had changed, but he had not known it until now.

And he blushed in shame, to see his prejudice in the light of the Lady’s gentle acceptance. He lowered his eyes, and turned away.

*~*~*

The fire burned low while they talked, until only the glowing coals remained. Legolas watched the others, listening as the Hobbits speculated upon what dreams had come to them under the Lady’s gaze. But none were willing to describe those visions in detail, though Boromir pressed Frodo long with questions. Finally Aragorn broke in, declaring himself very weary, and suggesting sleep in a voice that brooked no argument.

Legolas lay back upon his couch and folded his hands over his chest. He had pulled his bed out from under the silk overhanging of the pavilion, preferring instead to rest where he could see the stars. He would indeed have rather slept upon one of the flets overhead, where the breeze stirred the living branches and the song of the stars was deep and strong. But this night at least he would remain on the ground with the others.

For a time he lay quiet, listening to the slow breathing of his companions, and considering their words that evening. He had not spoken of his own experience, for he thought that the Ring’s ploy was nothing more than any might have guessed, and it did not interest him. But he watched closely as Boromir proudly recounted his refusal of temptation. If that were so, why then had the Man trembled under the Lady’s regard? And what of his preoccupation in Moria?

Legolas had looked at Aragorn, seeking his reaction to Boromir’s tale. But the Ranger did not meet his eyes, and sat with his elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the fire. Legolas did not know what he had faced in Galadriel’s questioning. From the others’ words it seemed that their experience had been different from his own – they had felt the turning of their thoughts toward the Ring, as he had, but there had not been the direct communication that he had shared. He did not know if this were merely because the Lady did not wish it for reasons of her own, or if it had something to do with the different way that mortals perceived Ilúvatar’s Song. Could they find resonance with another, and share thought along the connecting harmony as Elves did? He did not know. And his ignorance galled him.

He was supposed to be a guardian of this Fellowship, an aid to Frodo on his Quest. But he did not even know this most basic element of his companions’ perceptions. Aragorn was the only Man he had any real experience with, and all indications were that Aragorn was not an average representative of his race. His ignorance of Hobbits might be forgiven, for they had surprised even Mithrandir on occasion. But what of Gimli? Legolas had lived centuries on the very border of the Grey Mountains, and even negotiated trades with the Dwarves for swords and armour when Thranduil’s captains had convinced the king that the need was dire. Elbereth, Thorin’s company had spent weeks in his home! And yet at every turn Gimli confounded his assumptions and bewildered his understanding.

Look to your friends, the Lady had said, and he himself had said the same to Aragorn, and more, he had claimed friendship with all the Fellowship. But what friendship could there be if he did not understand them? Aragorn had passed the Lady’s test. Whether by Arwen’s love or only the strength of his own will, he had resisted the Ring. But he was weary, in heart and body, and his eyes had been so dark as he had stared into the fire.

And what of the others? What of Legolas himself? The Fellowship was splintering, and if friendship was their only hope then truly they were in desperate straights. Then let us repair it, Legolas thought. He was a warrior and a prince, born to serve his people and now sworn to save Middle-earth. And now his duty was clear.

There is no hope without friendship, and no friendship without understanding. So I will understand. I will understand them all, starting with the Dwarf.

*~*~*

It was not until the following evening, however, that Legolas was able to put his resolution into action. He had risen before the others, drawn from Elven dreams by the stir of the freshening breeze and gentle rise of the forest’s song before the dawn.

He climbed into the uppermost branches of the mellyrn to watch the sunrise. And as the light had come over the forest, reaching pure and clear over the Golden Wood as it never did in Mirkwood, he felt the trees respond. Slowly he was coming to understand these woods, he thought. It was still strange to him, still removed from his experience, but he could feel it now as he had not done before.

He thought about this as the light grew and the birds sang clear and free, untroubled by Orcs or Wargs or spiders or Shadow. And then he went to find Celeborn.

He knew of his own family’s uneasy relationship with the Elf lord, of course, and after spending the day in discussion with him Legolas thought he understood why Oropher had distanced himself from his kinsman. There was core of steel in Celeborn to match even Thranduil’s stubborn pride, and if ever those two came into conflict he would have preferred to watch from a safe distance, such as Valinor.

But the Elf lord was courteous, and received Legolas graciously as a prince of Lasgalen. Legolas took care to act his part, drawing upon the long years of training in his father’s court. Though he preferred the battlefield to the council chamber, he knew his duty, and he could serve his people with diplomacy as well as with a bow, though with less enjoyment.

He even went so far as to dig his circlet from the forgotten recesses of his pack, though he was careful not to let Aragorn see him do this. The Ranger had successfully evaded his own royal obligations for nearly three quarters of a century, and he had picked up a bad habit of teasing Legolas from the twins.

Celeborn too was a warrior constrained to lordship, and his probing questions revealed an intimate understanding of the Enemy’s tactics. The Lady had spoken of a War fought not only with blades alone, but her Lord had seen long years upon fields soaked with blood of kin and enemy alike, and had faced firsthand the bitterness of victory in Gorgoroth. His eyes darkened as Legolas described the growing Shadow in Mirkwood, and he had gone silent and still with dangerous calm.

He had not yet committed warriors to aid Lasgalen, but he had not dismissed the idea either. It was a beginning, Legolas thought wearily as he climbed down from the Lord’s office at the gathering of dusk. Before the Fellowship left Lothlórien he would write a letter granting Celeborn’s forces leave to enter Mirkwood and seek audience with the king. He could only hope that the missive would be needed.

And will you not go to them? He heard the words again in his mind and closed his eyes, leaning for a moment upon one of the trees about the Fellowship’s empty bower.

Certainly he could more surely gain aid for his people, and ensure that Thranduil would accept it were it offered, if he stayed and treated personally between Lothlórien and Mirkwood. War was coming, and Sauron’s northern army would strike hardest at his home. He had sworn to guard the Ring-bearer, at least for a little while, and in his heart he had promised to stand by Aragorn as well, but where now did his duty truly lie?

The sky had darkened to velvet blue, and the first stars were opening overhead. Legolas listened for a long moment, standing with head bowed against the cool bark as the night birds sang and the Elven lamps lit in the tree branches overhead. He could feel the peace here, tantalizing close, and with sudden decision he straightened and pulled the circlet from his brow. He stuffed it into his pack and then paused.

He hesitated for a long moment before unbuckling the ceremonial knife from his hip and laying it carefully in its sheath beside his bow, quiver, vambraces and other knives. He wanted no further thought of war this night.

Then, completely unarmed for the first time in his adult life, Legolas climbed up into the canopy of the Golden Wood. He moved swiftly through the trees, climbing for the sheer joy of it higher and higher until he reached the uppermost branches that bent and curved easily beneath his feet. Then he stopped, and settling with his back against the cool brace of a mallorn’s trunk he turned his face up toward the stars.

It was so still. The ancient tree cradled him here, some five hundred feet above the ground, and the night breeze brushed cool against his face. A cloud of hunting bats flitted over the treetops’ golden haze, their sharp cries piercing the gentle rustle of the leaves. An owl glided low over the wood and Legolas turned his head toward the feather whisper of its wings.

There too was the soft melody of Elven voices, lifted in a lament for Mithrandir that wove between the night shadows of the trees. But they came distantly to his ears, and were lost in the clear deep song of the stars. He should join them, he knew, for it was his duty as companion of the Grey Pilgrim to add his voice to those of Lórien, and to represent his people in the grieving of all Elves for Mithrandir’s passing.

But the pain was too sharp: his voice stuck in his throat, and neither song nor duty could ease the weight of unshed tears.

Only here, where the ancient stars met the timeless wood, the grief was muted. The cares and fears of Middle-earth seemed distant as the ground below, unimportant before the vastness of the heavens. He could lose himself here, give himself to Ilúvatar’s Song as it wove together all harmonies of creation, and there would be no pain any longer.

And as his breath slowed and his mind opened, it seemed to him that he heard the forest’s song clearly for the first time. It was deeper and wiser and stronger than any he had felt before: it throbbed with the rich texture of heart’s blood and it swept through him and challenged him to follow it, to fly with the eternal wing-beat of time and to dance with the soul-deep pulse of memory. This was the heart of Elvendom in Middle-earth, and there was no Shadow here. There was only memory, endless and unchanging as the sweep of the stars that welcomed the Firstborn ere mortal waked and mutable sun and moon took form.

It was what Greenwood might have been.

What it could yet be, a small voice whispered deep within him, but he closed his mind to that and shut his eyes, digging his fingers into the tree’s bark and breathing deeply, willing himself away from the call of the stars and the Song, the temptation of life free of the Shadow.

As he gathered his thoughts a new sound came to him, drifting up from far below. It was a steady, rhythmic thudding, completely at odds with the peaceful night song of the forest. Legolas tilted his head, listening intently. And then he opened his eyes and sighed. And he began the long climb down again to the ground.

*~*~*

Thud. Gimli was bored. He had spent the day walking about the woods with the others, and had first eaten, then nibbled, then finally just watched while the Hobbits partook of no less than eight separate meals as one group of Elves after another had approached them.

Thud.The Elves of Lothlórien had discovered the way to a Hobbit’s heart very quickly, and their hospitality was met with whole-hearted approval on the part of Gimli’s smaller companions.

Thud. The small axe’s blade struck deep into the soft earth at his side, and he slid his hand down the short handle and pulled it free, swinging it over his hand in a practiced motion and bringing it down again in a swift, smooth arc. Thud.

The Elves had treated him courteously, if somewhat distantly. But when evening had fallen and they invited the Fellowship to view the lamp lighting from the vantage of the trees, Gimli had excused himself. The Hobbits were also uncertain about venturing yet again into the heights; but Merry was determined to go and this, coupled with the promise of more food on the flets, meant that they all went, although Sam took much convincing.

Aragorn had spent much of the day off by himself somewhere, but he rejoined them at dusk and encouraged Boromir to join the expedition as well. So, satisfied that the Men would keep the Hobbits safe, Gimli felt no need to break his vow to avoid Elven ladders just yet.

He still felt uncomfortable around so many Elves, even when he wasn’t suspended three hundred feet in the air. The Lady Galadriel had changed him, or made him aware of changes already taken place, and in his love for her he could not hate her people. But that didn’t mean that he necessarily had to spend all his time with them, either. So now he sat alone at the base of a mallorn far from the Elven city, and tried to find some peace in thought.

Thud. He wanted his pipe. He had searched through his pack and checked all his pockets twice, and it simply was not there. Either Legolas had finally made good on his threat early in the journey to hide all of the Fellowship’s pipeweed supplies, or Gimli had lost it somewhere in Moria.

Thud. He needed his pipe. He needed something familiar, something that he could cling to in the bewildering morass that surrounded him. He had spoken far too freely before all those Elves, he thought. What madness had come over him? Love, yes, but love should be kept secret and deep, as a river that flows cold and pure through hidden chasms far beneath the earth. It was not to be exposed for any to see.

This was the message of the exile: what was not hidden would be lost. What was not guarded would be taken. Adrift in foreign lands, the Khazad had learned these lessons through slow years of painful experience, and they kept them well. Anything that truly mattered, history and love and even language, was secreted away from the outside world, guarded from those who could not understand.

But somehow he had forgotten that. In his journey with the Fellowship he had slowly opened to his companions, Hobbits and Men and finally even the Elf. And as he had come to understand them, and even to admire them, the bulwarked defenses of his heart had gradually eroded. So that the first rush of love in face of the Lady’s kindness had overwhelmed him completely, and he had given himself up to her utterly, and laid his heart open, vulnerable to any who cared to read it.

And he was supposed to be the Fellowship’s representative of all Dwarves in Middle-earth! He, who had not joined the quest to end the exile, who had fled before the evil that defiled his people’s tomb.

Balin, Oin: all the names and faces of his friends, his kin, who had gone to claim a world, while he had stayed at home. They had fought, and conquered, for however brief a time, and died there, and their bones were dust in the great chambers of Khazad-dûm.

He carried their legacy in the great book of Mazarbul, but even that seemed futile now. The book was cracked and torn, and soon its pages too would be dust. He could recite the names, but his memory faltered, and to forget even one would be to dishonor them all.

Thud. Someone was watching him. Gimli felt the warning prickle along the back of his neck, and with a warrior’s keen instincts he pushed aside his inner musings and focused on the threat. He pulled his small axe free and held it ready as he slowly scanned the surrounding wood.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and the next moment Legolas stepped into the small clearing directly in front of him. The Elf did not say anything, but merely stood and regarded Gimli in silence. Gimli returned the scrutiny with frank curiosity.

For the first time that he could remember, Legolas was not dressed in hunting brown and green. A loose silver tunic fell to mid-thigh over his flowing grey leggings. The tunic was open at the throat and wrists, with no sign of quiver strap, knives, or vambraces. The Elf’s feet were bare upon the soft grass, and his unbraided hair fell loose over his neck and shoulders. The soft radiance about him blended with the starlight, and Legolas seemed a part of the timeless woods, the graceful lines of his slender form scarcely to be distinguished from the silvered trees.

Gimli felt suddenly acutely conscious of the bulk of his chain mail and axes, his heavy boots and weighted helmet, and he felt more out of place and uncomfortable than ever. He bristled defensively, gripping his axe uncertainly. “What are you doing here, Elf?”

Legolas raised one dark eyebrow. “At the moment, I am looking at you, Master Dwarf.” Gimli hesitated, unsure how to respond to that, and the Elf continued with a strange sort of formality. “You seem… disquieted. Are you in need of aid?”

Gimli frowned. Had he given himself away so completely, that any passerby could read him so easily? “What makes you say that, Master Elf?” he asked cautiously.

The Elf seemed to hesitate. “I do not know,” he said finally. “It seems that I know very little about the Khazad. But I did not think that thumping like a woodpecker in the forest was a sign of contentment for a Dwarf.”

Gimli blinked. He hardly knew whether to take offense at the comparison, or simply fall over in astonishment at the Elf’s use of his people’s proper name. Finally he set his axe down and folded his arms in a gesture of wary neutrality. “I did not hurt the trees, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No.” Legolas smiled faintly. “I doubt that you could do that, Master Dwarf, even were you to lay your axe directly to the mellyrn themselves. Though that would certainly attract the attention of the Elves, if you wish company.”

Gimli repressed a shiver at the thought. “No thank you,” he said. “I’ve had enough Elves to last me a while.”

“I see.” Legolas bowed coldly and turned away. “Then I will not trouble you with my presence.”

“No!” the word was past Gimli’s lips before he could think. Legolas stopped and looked back at him quizzically.

“I mean,” Gimli said, backpedaling furiously as he tried think, “that is, you don’t have to –” He flushed. “Durin’s beard, Elf, I didn’t mean you!”

“Ah.” Legolas faced him and folded his arms casually over his chest. “Then in fact you meant to say that you had had enough of Lórien Elves to last you, and your insult was directed toward your hosts.”

Gimli groaned. “No.”

Legolas tilted his head quizzically, but when Gimli did not elaborate he shrugged and said, “Then I am forced to conclude that you did in fact intend to insult all Elves, but for some reason I am not included in your tally.”

“Yes. No. I mean –” Gimli wished he could pick up his axe again. But given that Legolas was unarmed it seemed somehow unsporting.

“I assure you that I am indeed an Elf.”

“Yes, I know, I only meant –”

“I was chosen to represent all Elves in the Fellowship.”

“I know that, I just –”

“I can prove it to you, if necessary.”

“No, that isn’t –”

“I can sing.”

“Aargh!” Gimli threw up his hands in exasperation, while Legolas watched him with a faint smile on his lips.

“That is not necessary.” Gimli said finally, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care. “I know that you are an Elf. Only an Elf could be so blasted infuriating. I only meant that the past few months have increased my resistance to your particular breed of madness, so that your company is marginally less unpleasant than it once was.”

Legolas’ smile grew, his eyes dancing. “Such fair words from a son of Aulë! Stay your sweet tongue, Master Dwarf, else I shall fancy that I might rival the Lady Galadriel in your affections.”

Gimli tensed, his hand straying instinctively back to the shaft of his axe. Here they came to it, and surely the Elf would now remind him of his folly, and exploit the weakness he had shown.

But Legolas seemed to sense his unease immediately, and his teasing manner fell away like a discarded cloak. “Master Dwarf?” he said gently. “I would not speak ill of the Lady, in your presence or any other’s. On that I give my word.”

Gimli hesitated, looking into Legolas’ now-serious eyes. Would it be asking too much, he wondered, to expect the Elf to stay in one mood for longer than five minutes at a stretch? Perhaps only a week earlier he would have followed this thought with a comment on the value of an Elf’s word, but now he only nodded slowly. “I know,” he said. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trailed off.

Legolas dropped gracefully to the ground, folding his overly-long legs beneath him so that he was nearly at eye level with the seated Dwarf. Gimli wished he hadn’t – this was awkward enough without the Elf staring at him from a few feet away. He looked down and picked at the leather bindings of his axe handle.

“Master Dwarf?” The musical voice was tinged with concern. “Gimli?”

Gimli’s head jerked up in shock. This was the second time the Elf had called him by name. He looked into the clear eyes, and saw something he had never seen before.

Legolas’ defenses were down. Not only knives and quiver were cast aside, now, but the steel-edged self-possession, the deadly precision with which he held himself, were relaxed. Legolas had opened himself, had become vulnerable as Gimli had never seen him. And Gimli could not help but respond in kind.

“Legolas,” he said, the first time he had spoken the Elf’s name in direct address. “I think that I must be going mad, but it doesn’t matter.”

Legolas frowned, clearly puzzled, and Gimli fought down a sudden urge to laugh. Perhaps he should have confided in the Elf earlier. Legolas was rarely at such a complete loss, and Gimli felt that the experience was good for him.

“I have already given up more of my people’s secrets than any Dwarf of this Age, for I held nothing back when she looked at me. And now I would willingly confide yet further in an Elf.”

“Would you?” Legolas smiled. “Then I must join you in your madness, for I would seek to understand a Dwarf, as no Elf has done in this Age.”

Gimli hesitated, looking at him closely, but Legolas met his eyes calmly, not piercing him, only waiting for what he chose to reveal. “I told you that it does not matter,” he said finally. “Whether you understand or not, it makes no difference. Khazad-dûm is gone.”

Legolas looked at him steadily, his dark eyes gentle. “And the Elves are fading,” he said softly. “Lothlórien cannot hold for long, even as mortals measure time. But we will be remembered, in the Undying Lands if nowhere else.”

Gimli shook his head, forcing back the hot stinging behind his eyes. “But there is none to remember us. The book of Mazarbul is already unreadable in places. Even the stones of Khazad-dûm will wear away and be forgotten, with none to care for them.”

“I will remember them,” Legolas said. Gimli blinked and stared at him in surprise, but the Elf looked utterly serious. “I have seen the great halls of Khazad-dûm, and the tomb of the warriors who took back their city. My people fight with their own strength, and we will not fade, however comes this Quest. I will live, in Middle-earth or over the Sea, and I will remember.”

Gimli hesitated, unsure how to respond, but Legolas smiled and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. “Come, Master Dwarf,” he said. “Let us join our madness together. You will tell me of your people’s glory, and I will understand. I will remember for us both.”

Perhaps it was madness. But Gimli did not care. He stood, brushing the dirt from his axe head. He slipped it in his belt and set out across the grass. Glancing up at his taller companion as he approached he said, “It is a worthy plan, Master Elf. But I wonder if your wit is great enough to comprehend the true majesty of Dwarven history, much less to remember it all.”

Legolas shrugged easily. “You will simply have to take your chances, Master Dwarf. But I am sure that whatever I do not remember I can invent easily enough.”

“Invent?” Gimli had to hurry to keep up as the Elf slipped silently into the forest.

“Of course. For example, I can say that Dwarves were so frightened of knives of any kind that they refused to cut their hair, and their beards grew so long that they frequently tripped over them when they walked.”

“What?”

“That is when the weight of the ungainly things didn’t tip them over headfirst into the ground.”

“You wouldn’t dare. Would you? You better not – Legolas? Elf!”

But they were well into the woods by then, and only the tramp of Dwarven boots and the clear notes of Elven laughter drifted back through the trees.

*~*~*

Coming Soon: Endgame.

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien created these wonderful characters. For that, I am more grateful than I can say.

Epilogue

“Then Thorin left Erebor and went to unify the Khazad of the Grey Mountains –”

“Thorin? I met him.”

Gimli shot his companion a quick glance. When they had begun the lessons the previous evening Legolas had listened respectfully and his few questions had shown a surprisingly insightful understanding of the material.

But a night spent up in the treetops above the Fellowship’s pavilion seemed to have relaxed the Elf, and now as they walked under the dappled afternoon sunlight Gimli began to suspect that he was being teased. He ignored this and continued doggedly. “No, not Thorin Oakenshield. This was seven hundred years before his time.”

Legolas seemed to think about that for a moment. “How long did the first Thorin live?”

Gimli dropped back to follow the Elf as the path narrowed. “Two hundred and fifty years. His grandson, Glóin –”

“Your father?”

“My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Six hundred years ago, Legolas.”

“He did not come back?”

“What? No.”

“But Durin –”

“That was a special case.”

Legolas shook his head as the path widened again, allowing them to walk abreast. “I am sorry, Gimli. Durin was the one who made sense to me.”

Gimli stopped to adjust the fit of his small axe in his belt – it had been bumping against his hip as he walked. “Mmph – there.” He glanced up to find the Elf waiting for him. “Now what was that?”

Legolas shrugged. “When I studied Dwarven history and customs –”

“You studied Dwarven history?”

Legolas straightened. “Of course. As a representative of the king –”

Gimli snorted. Legolas ignored this and continued, raising his voice slightly. “As a representative of the king I was required to know the cultures of all peoples of Middle-earth. Including Dwarves, Men, Ents –”

“Who?”

“And most confusing was how many kings the Men and Dwarves have had, and how quickly they come and go. Hardly a yén seems to pass without a new one. But Durin was different. It was much easier before he left.”

Gimli thought about this. “I suppose,” he said finally, “that that’s just one of the things you’ll have to get used to, Master Elf. We mortals do tend to come and go faster than you Elves.”

There was a pause. “Yes,” Legolas said softly, and fell silent. He seemed to be thinking about something, but he soon shook himself and gestured back toward the path. His eyes were very dark.

They walked for a time in silence, while Gimli tried to think of something to say. Clearly his words, obvious though they were, had reminded the Elf of a truth that he preferred not to contemplate.

Legolas’ brow was furrowed, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he walked faster and faster along the path. Loose tendrils of his hair blew back, and he was soon striding along so rapidly that Gimli was in danger of having to trot to keep up.

But it isn’t as if he didn’t know, Gimli thought, torn between sympathy for the Elf and impatience at his sudden moodiness. Five minutes. Is it really too much to ask . . . How Aragorn puts up with – Oh Mahal. Aragorn. So that was the problem.

Gimli glanced up at the Elf as they swept along, trying to keep from panting. He considered pointing out that by all accounts the line of Númenor was much longer lived than most Men, but somehow he didn’t think that would be of much comfort to the immortal. Also, he was now so short of breath that he doubted if he could pronounce the word “Númenor” without a rest stop first.

“You know,” he managed, now taking two steps to every one of Legolas’, “we also study other cultures.”

“Mmm.” Well, at least the Elf was still listening. Gimli forged on, breathing hard now.

“Of course… it’s important… for trade. Have to… know how… to deal.” This was ridiculous. He was tempted to stop and just let the Elf run off into the forest alone, if that’s what he wanted. But Legolas had comforted him, when he had grieved for his people’s loss. He could do no less in return. And he’d run his legs into the ground before he admitted weakness before the Elf.

“Men are… complicated. All those different lines… north kingdom… south kingdom… stewards. But Elves… are easy.”

Legolas actually slowed his stride at that. He glanced sharply at Gimli. “Are they.” His voice was cool, wary as though suspecting a trap, but clearly the Dwarf had captured his interest again.

Gimli nodded. “Sure. Take Mirkwood, for instance.” Legolas came to a halt and turned his full attention upon him. Gimli unbuckled his large battle-axe and leaned it gratefully against a tree, using the opportunity to take a few deep breaths. He waited until his heart had slowed and then turned casually back to find the Elf still staring at him.

He wiped his hands with elaborate care on his leggings and said, “Mirkwood’s complete history can be summed up in two words.”

“Two words.” Legolas’ voice was laced with skepticism.

“Yup. Oropher, Thranduil. See? Easy.”

Legolas’ jaw actually dropped a millimeter. Gimli saw it. But the Elf recovered quickly and turned away, walking much more slowly this time. “I think it is a little more complicated than that, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli shrugged and swung his axe back over his shoulder as he joined him. “Nonsense. A child could learn it in a day.”

“And the Sundering of the kindreds? Oropher’s passage over the mountains to the great wood, and the joining of the Úmanyar? The mustering of the Nandor to the plain of Gorgoroth? The rise of the Dark Tower?”

Gimli waved his hand. “Piffling details.”

“Piffling!” But their eyes met then, and Gimli could not keep his face straight any longer. His lips twitched, then quirked, and a deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. The Elf’s utterly shocked expression was too much for him. Gimli leaned against a nearby tree trunk as his knees went weak and he gave himself up to the laughter that shook his whole body.

Legolas watched him stiffly for a long moment, radiating disapproval as only an Elven prince can. But a faint twitching set in about his lips, and then his eyes crinkled briefly as one corner of his mouth quirked, and finally the façade crumbled and he laughed, his clear voice ringing over Gimli’s deep chortles.

When the mirth had run its course Legolas sank down to sit on the raised earth at the side of the path. Gimli settled back on the opposite bank, wishing again for his pipe. But something jabbed him sharply in the ribs, and he had to lean forward as he pulled his short axe from his belt.

Legolas watched this with interest. “Would you not be more comfortable, Master Dwarf, if you left your weapons behind?”

“Mmph.” Gimli occupied himself with setting his throwing axe next to the battle-axe beside him, preferring not to answer that question. In truth the constant weight of the axes, helmet, and chain mail was becoming tiresome. But he was still not entirely at ease in these woods, though they did seem less strange now. Perhaps that was due to the Lady, or perhaps it was seeing Legolas here beside him – the Elf looked so perfectly at home that Gimli could not help but relax in his presence. But these experiences were new, and Dwarves were slow to trust in new relationships. He felt better with his weapons close at hand.

Legolas started to say something else, but then stopped. He seemed to be listening to something that Gimli could not hear, and he tilted back his head to look up. His eyes narrowed as he studied the branches overhead, and then he looked back at Gimli and smiled ruefully. “We have company,” he said.

Gimli was just opening his mouth to ask what he meant when two Lórien Elves dropped suddenly into the path between them. He shut his mouth with a snap but, thanks to Legolas’ warning, succeeded in not jumping two feet into the air. It must be endemic to all Wood-elves, he thought as he tried to slow the pounding of his heart. Some inherent weakness of the species that makes them leap out of trees at people.

The Elves looked a little like Legolas, with their long blond hair, and they glanced at Gimli with expressions of mingled curiosity and disdain that reminded him forcefully of the Mirkwood party at the Council of Elrond. One of them turned to Legolas and said something in a swift, musical tongue that Gimli did not even try to understand.

Legolas remained where he was, seated comfortably with his hands dangling over his knees, but he raised one eyebrow and said coolly, and in Westron, “Lord Gimli is a member of the Fellowship sent out from Imladris, and my guest. If you wish to know anything further, I would suggest that you speak to him.”

The Elves looked at each other, and at Gimli. “Hir Legolas,” the first one began again, “i nogoth a renia mi aladh –”

Legolas smiled and said, “It seems that I am constantly clarifying things these days. Yesterday I reminded Lord Gimli that I am an Elf. Today I must explain to you that I am not a Dwarf. And to think, I had always imagined the difference to be obvious.”

Gimli hid a smile behind his hand. The Elves looked rather taken aback, but after exchanging another glance the second one turned to Gimli and said in halting Westron, “Lord Nogoth. We were wondering how it comes that a stump-footer leaves his caves and dwells now in Lothlórien.”

Gimli hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. He was virtually certain that he’d been insulted, but he did not know if it was deliberate. And if it were an insult then his usual responses were curtailed. Threatening one’s hosts with an axe was generally considered to be in poor taste.

But Legolas had risen smoothly to his feet, and he had no need to draw any weapon. His eyes were hard and every line of his body radiated a clear warning. “Khazad,” he said softly.

The first Elf glanced back at him questioningly. “What?”

“I believe,” Legolas said with that same dangerous calm, “that the word you intended to use was Khazad. Or “Dwarf,” to use the Common Tongue. It is difficult, I know. Perhaps it would be best if you addressed the Lady’s guest by name.”

The Elf met Legolas’ eyes for a long moment, and then looked away. He gave a twisted smile and bowed shortly. Looking back at Gimli he said in clipped tones, “Lord Gimli. How is it that a Dwarf hides behind the defense of a prince of Mirkwood?”

That one was definitely deliberate. Gimli got to his feet, resisting the urge to take his axe with him. “I suppose,” he said coldly, using his best impression of Thorin Oakenshield, “that he recognizes quality company when he sees it. The reverse is certainly true as well.”

It was not often that one saw an Elf go speechless with shock. Gimli thought that the experience almost made up for not being able to use his axe. Legolas shot him an amused glance, but when he addressed the Elves his voice was clear and cold. “I believe that you have your answer. Is there anything further?”

It seemed that there was not. With a last puzzled look back and a bow, the two Elves leaped up into the trees and were gone. Legolas stood with his head tilted slightly, listening, and then sighed. The taut lines of his body relaxed, and he bent easily to retrieve Gimli’s small axe. “‘Quality company’, Master Dwarf?”

“Hmph.” Gimli took the axe and fell in beside Legolas as they proceeded down the path. “Not quite applicable to a spoiled Elvish princeling, I know, but the best I could do on short notice.”

“Ah. I was uncertain if you referred to your impression of me, or mine of you. But as you meant the first, I will not correct you. However we may have to work on your insults, Master Dwarf.”

“Nonsense. I’ve won every argument I’ve ever had with you, Master Elf.”

Legolas coughed, his shoulders shaking as he covered his mouth with his hand. It was a moment before he could speak, and his eyes were very bright. “I was unaware that fleeing the battlefield in confusion constituted a victory. My education grows by leaps and bounds, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli smothered a grin as he looked up at the Elf. “Of course it does. There wasn’t much there to begin with, after all.”

“Better. A clear subject and objective noun is always helpful if you wish to make your opponent understand the insult. We can work on that later.”

“Hmph. What makes you think –” but Legolas had come to an abrupt halt. Gimli stopped mid-sentence and looked at him curiously. “What is it?”

Legolas smiled. “We are here.”

“What?”

But the Elf only gestured for him to follow and slipped off into the forest. Gimli hesitated, looking around nervously as he thought of his father’s tales of another Elven wood, and the consequences of leaving the path. But the trees here were young, much smaller than the mellyrn, and birds were singing in the branches close overhead. There was no hint of the darkness or musty air and webs that Glóin had described. With a sigh and a muttered comment about unnecessarily secretive Elves, Gimli took a firmer grip on his large axe and followed.

Legolas led him some distance from the path, to where a cluster of young trees grew close together, draped in a grey-green moss. Pulling the curtain aside, he motioned Gimli forward. Hesitantly Gimli stepped through the opening, and froze.

He was in a cave. Or, he was in as close to one as was possible in these woods. The tree branches were woven close over his head, and only a dim greenish light filtered through their leaves. A thick screen of low branches and moss grew all around the tiny area, enclosing an almost perfect circle ten feet in diameter.

Legolas entered behind him and stood, his head brushing the low branches above them. “Well, Master Dwarf?”

Gimli turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. “How did you…”

The Elf smiled. “There are many wonders in the Golden Wood. I expect that there are other glades like this about as well, if one knows where to look.”

Gimli glanced at him. “You asked the trees?”

Legolas shrugged. “Not as such. But I finally learned how to listen.” He reached up to touch one of the slender branches. “These trees are young, and their tone is very different from the mellyrn.”

Gimli looked around again, trying and failing to be nonchalant. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“It is…” there were no words.

Legolas was watching him closely. “These woods must be very different than what you are used to. I thought that you might prefer a place more sheltered.”

“Aye,” Gimli said softly. “Aye, I do at that.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Thank you, Master Elf.”

A brilliant smile lit Legolas’ face. “You are welcome, Master Dwarf.” He looked up again. “Of course, it could be improved. If we just pushed these branches aside, to let in more light –”

“Oy! Touch those branches, Elf, and I’ll have your head with my axe.”

Legolas laughed. Gimli chuckled and settled down on the mossy floor. He prodded the soft earth absently as Legolas sat down at the far side of the “cave.”

“The Hobbits would enjoy this as well. It’s not too different from one of their holes.”

“Mmm.” Legolas’ head was tilted back as he watched the flicker of light in the leaves overhead.

Gimli looked at him sidelong. “You couldn’t have found a real cave, could you?”

Legolas smiled. “I fear not.”

“Mmph. An outcropping of granite? Boulders by the river? One little rock?”

“Alas, I am not attuned to such things, Master Dwarf.”

“H’m.” Gimli thought for a moment. “You don’t have to be attuned to them when logic will suffice. With a river like the Silverlode running through this forest, there has to be some good strata exposed. Tomorrow we will go and find it.”

“We?”

“Consider it part of your education, Master Elf. You can’t understand Dwarves without understanding rocks.”

“I did notice a similarity between the two. In intelligence, mostly.”

“Watch it, Elf. You keep this up and your next lesson will be spelunking.”

*~*~*

The small glade grew dark much more quickly than the more open forest, and scarcely had it done so than Legolas insisted that they leave. As the evening shadows lengthened they made their way back to the Fellowship’s pavilion, where Sam explained to them at length the custom of punctuality at meals and the difficulties of reheating sausage and mash.

Legolas ate with the others, but as night came on he excused himself and vanished into the woods. He was gone all night and much of the next morning, but reappeared promptly at lunchtime, dropping from the trees to land almost on top of Gimli.

Gimli started violently, spilling his soup, and gave loud opinion as to the questionability of Legolas’ ancestry. But the Elf only laughed, and soon the rest of the Fellowship joined in, while Gimli glowered at them and fought back a smile. And when Legolas invited him to explore the river that afternoon, he went, and he did not take his axes.

*~*~*

Legolas was away much among the Galadhrim, and after the first night he did not sleep with the other companions, though he returned to eat and talk with them. Often he took Gimli with him when he went abroad in the land, and the others wondered at this change.

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Mirror of Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring.

The End.

Úmanyar: The branch of Elves that includes the Sindar, Silvan, and Green-elves, the Eldar who did not go to Valinor. The Silmarillion

Hir Legolas, I nogoth a renia mi aladh – “Lord Legolas, that Dwarf strays in the [forest]” (word is interrupted.)