In Search of Stillness

The dwarf growled like a disgruntled tomcat, the sound in his throat halfway between a snarl and a protest.  

‘What did you expect?’ Legolas asked, unable to keep the amusement from his tone, even though he knew that he risked his friend’s wrath.

‘Nothing better,’ the dwarf scowled.  ‘Why should I?  Trees, after all, cannot equal solid stone when it comes to keeping out the weather.’

‘Why would you want to keep out the weather?’

The elf turned his face up to the rain, allowing it to caress his smooth cheeks and tangle in fine drops in his fair hair. 

‘I will rust solid if it does not stop soon.’

‘That would be a shame.’

Gimli’s dark eyes fulminated at him out of habit, but he could not suppress a silent satisfaction.  The elf was content.  That, in itself, made more endurable the endless drizzle and the soggy beds of decaying leaves and the scant meals of stale bread and hard cheese. He had been worried about the lad.  Worried enough to winkle him out of his southern woodland and drag him north, further from the scent of that cursed sea.  He shook his beard, scattering water like a dog escaping from an unwelcome bath.  ‘I would not say no to a flagon of good ale, either.’

‘Or a haunch of roast venison.  Or an evening of story-telling round a roaring fire.’

‘You are coming to understand me, my friend.’

‘What is there to understand?’

His companion’s airy smile failed to fool the dwarf.  ‘You would have caught me out once, my princeling, but no more.  I am become immune to your insults.’

‘I can see I shall have to try harder.’

They continued in companionable silence, the dwarf’s heavy boots squelching across the wet moss while the elf’s long legs kept pace.  The wood smelled … fresh and green.  Privately, the dwarf had to admit to a certain exhilaration.  He had grown accustomed to the open skies of Rohan and fond of the warm ease of Ithilien, but the north was still home in some instinctive way that had nothing to do with where either of them lived.

‘Are you sure you know where you are going, elf?  The trees all look the same to me – and there are far too many of them.  Give me a good road to follow – trackless forests where you cannot see the sky are not to my taste.’

The elf grinned.  He had long realised that Gimli grumbled more out of affection than irritation – a seriously irritated dwarf was much more likely to launch himself straight into a fight, and that was not something anyone wanted to provoke. 

‘This part of the forest was close enough to Dol Guldur to wither and twist,’ he said.  ‘Last time I was here, you could see the sky clearly enough.’  He touched a reassuring hand to the smooth bark of a young birch and its small oval leaves shivered, sending a shower to drench them both.  ‘I am glad to see trees – and to hear them singing of spring: fresh breezes and warm sun and lengthening days.’ 

Gimli’s deep voice grumbled inaudibly beneath his beard, but, had the elf been looking, he would have glimpsed satisfaction in the dwarf’s eyes and, perhaps, associated the sound more with the purr of a big cat.  One of the disadvantages to the move south had been the lessening of the impact of the seasons – it seemed to the dwarf that his elf, at least, yearned for the unfurling of the year: the unwrapping of the forest in spring, the warm hum of summer, the generosity of autumn, followed by the sleep of winter.  It had a rhythm that – he supposed – resembled the endless advance and retreat of the tides, but one that gave the elf strength rather than sucking the life from him.

‘How long before we have a comfortable bed to sleep in?’ Gimli demanded, as if the proliferation of increasingly sturdy trees was an offence to an honest dwarf.  ‘Are you sure that you are not lost, elf?’

‘I could walk these woods blindfold, dwarf,’ Legolas said cheerfully, ‘and still the trees would guide me home.  You, on the other hand – maybe you need to worry about whether my father’s patrols have been told to spit you on sight.’

The dwarf snorted.  ‘We made our peace long since, elf.  As you know full well.  He does not like me – but he tolerates me, as long as I guard your back.  I am wary of him, but offer respect to him as your sire and recognise him as king of this forest.  It is in both our interests to keep our blades sheathed.’

Legolas smiled.  ‘You are the first dwarf he has called elf-friend, Gimli.  I think you under-estimate his good opinion of you.’

‘Safer that way.’

The smile became a laugh.  ‘You have a point.’  The elf shook the rain from his hair and looked up.  ‘This has set in for the night, I think.  Not far from here there is an overhang that patrols use from time to time.  Not quite a cave, but deep enough to provide us with a roof – and there should be some dry wood stacked there to give us a fire.’

‘Hot food,’ Gimli grunted.  ‘What are we waiting for?’ 

‘You to get moving?’ the elf reflected, grinning mischievously as he lengthened his stride, leaving the dwarf to chase behind indignantly. 

He never allowed himself to get quite far enough ahead to lose sight – or, at least, sound – of Gimli.  Most of the warriors of the Greenwood knew that this dwarf was permitted to roam as he chose throughout Thranduil’s realm, but that did not mean that they would not elect to make him doubt his welcome.  Elven memory was long and not particularly forgiving and, when combined with an occasionally malicious sense of humour, could lead to misunderstandings. 

Nevertheless, Legolas made a point of sprawling elegantly beside an infant fire by the time his friend panted into the shelter.  ‘What kept you?’ he asked, raising a golden brow in pretended innocence, ignoring Gimli’s sodden boots.

‘Those tufts of grass might be able to support your weight, elf,’ the dwarf complained, ‘but they are too insubstantial to keep me from sinking to my knees in mud.’

‘If only your knees were not so close to the ground.’  Legolas shook his head with sympathy.

The dwarf refused to be goaded into retort.  ‘How far are we from your father’s stronghold?’ he asked.

‘Three days, at this pace.  Maybe four, if the rain persists.’

Gimli rolled his shoulders.  He was not as young as he had once been and the cool spring drizzle seemed to be sinking into his joints and leaving an ache that a night’s rest on the too-solid ground did not seem to diminish.

‘We could have been there more quickly on horseback.’

‘Speed was not the purpose of this journey, elf.  And dwarves prefer to keep their feet on the ground.’

‘I know why you suddenly felt an irresistible urge to return to Erebor, Gimli,’ Legolas said affectionately.  ‘And it had nothing to do with paying your respects to your father’s tomb, whatever you might have said – I know enough of your customs to recognise that evasion, even if the surprise in Fandin’s eyes had not been enough to reveal your prevarication.’

‘H’mm.’  Gimli opened his pack to remove a small pan and proceeded to add a rough handful from a few of his dried stores before opening his water bottle and sloshing the contents over the mix.  With the ease of years of practice, he linked together a few metal rods and hung the pot over the fire.  ‘Perhaps I just fancied a trip home,’ he conceded.  ‘I am not getting any younger, you know.’

‘And perhaps you thought a trip home was what I needed.’

The dwarf remained silent for a while until the steam began to rise from the pot and the smell of the stew began to scent their bolthole.  ‘You cannot expect us not to see it,’ he said finally.  ‘Aragorn worries about you, Arwen wants to send for her brothers in case they can offer you any balm, Faramir watches you get thinner and paler by the season …’  He looked up at his friend, his expression hidden behind his drying beard, but his eyes catching the firelight.  ‘You would be better sailing than remaining here to fade.  There is no shame in giving in to the call.’

The elf’s long fingers linked over his raised knee.  ‘It is not that easy,’ he said, and the dwarf winced at the pain in his voice.  ‘Once you go, you cannot return – and I am not ready to give up what I have here, in this world, any more than you are.  Do you blame me for wanting to hold on as long as I can?’

‘No, lad.’ The dwarf reached out to touch his friend’s arm briefly.  ‘But can you blame those who care for you for wanting to soothe your hurt?’

‘So you are taking me home to my adar.’  The elf smiled.  ‘We will be delighted to see each other – and at odds within a week.’

‘And then you will have a row about something meaningless, get over it, and settle back into being father and son – until you get restless again and feel so stifled that we leave, and then you will both be miserable and bad-tempered until you have exchanged conciliatory letters and grown accustomed to being apart again.’  Gimli flicked a dismissive finger.  ‘I know.  I have seen it all before.’

‘I know not why you put up with me.’ 

Gimli ignored the waspishness.  ‘Neither do I, elf.  Neither do I.’

For all its lack of walls their makeshift shelter became surprisingly cosy as the fire warmed the air, and the veil of raindrops trickling over the edge of the rock gave an illusion of privacy.  Gimli used his thick glove to lift the stew from the fire and ladled a portion into a bowl for his friend before taking his own share.  ‘It would be better with fresh bread,’ he said.

‘It is still the best meal we have had in days.’  Legolas could, at times, eat with the enthusiasm of a hobbit, and this appeared to be one of those times.  The treesong of home seemed to be unwinding a part of him that had been wound to breaking point – and giving him time to relish small pleasures, like hot food and spring rain.

‘We should let the fire die down.’  Gimli paused between mouthfuls.  ‘Your patrols doubtless know we are here, but we would not want to attract other visitors.’

‘The wood is safe,’ Legolas said contentedly.  ‘For the first time in my life, I can say that with conviction.  The wood is safe – and the trees will let me know if anything, or anyone, approaches.’

‘Nonetheless…’

‘You can watch if you want to …’ The elf flipped a dismissive hand.  ‘At least I will be spared the sound of your snoring.’

The cloud-obscured light dwindled to darkness, but the rain continued, making their refuge feel like a haven.  A night breeze sharpened, reminding them that they were no longer in the easy-going southlands and making Gimli glad that the embers of the fire still burned.  An owl hooted, and Legolas pushed himself up on his elbow to listen.

‘Even I know that owls do not fly in the rain,’ Gimli observed.

‘There is little that does.’

‘They are close?’

Legolas sat up and began to dust off his clothing, running his fingers through his hair to tidy it as best he could.  The dwarf made no effort to follow suit – it would take more than a perfunctory attempt at grooming to make him look respectable, after all.  Far too much mud had attached itself to his person, and it was not as if these elves appreciated his efforts even when he had his beard properly braided and his axes polished.

A horse whickered nearby and a low voice reassured the beast that it was in no danger.  Gimli closed his eyes as he moved beyond the final glowing cinders.  Nothing to worry about, he felt sure, but there was no reason to let the elven patrol find them trapped and unprepared in a dead-end.

Legolas emerged from the watery curtain, having somewhere on the way made the transition from simple Wood Elf to prince, and he stood imperiously tall and confident whilst figures approached him from the shadows.  His dwarf, he knew, stood just behind him to the right, his throwing axes no more than a twitch away from his hands.

‘Well, finally,’ a drawling voice declared.  Its power echoed back from the trees, but its tone was – fortunately – one of exasperated amusement.  ‘I had begun to send out search parties for fear that my son could not remember the way home.’  Thranduil advanced swiftly, ignoring the dwarf, to clasp his slender son in his arms, their fair hair mingling and shielding their faces from the watching warriors.

‘Adar!’  Legolas gripped his father tightly, breathing in the aura of strength that surrounded him, the raw power that bound the Woodland King to his realm and channelled the natural bond of elf and land.  In his father’s arms, he was, for a brief while, sheltered from the cries of the gulls and the smell of salt.  For a brief while, he could come home.

The Woodland King turned his head, and for a moment his star-filled eyes met the dwarf’s gleaming dark ones.  Thranduil inclined his head in a gesture of recognition and respect that momentarily surprised the dwarf, before he returned a bow with understanding. 

Gimli stepped back to give the two time together.  The peace would not last.  It could not.  The world would continue to turn and the sea would continue its siren call, but, just for the moment, here in the forest where he was born, his elf had found peace at the still centre.