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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

Arod was swift of foot, and Legolas eager to reach the wood, but evening was drawing near when at last they passed beneath the forbidding eves of Fangorn Forest, the valley of Isengard far behind.  Gimli stifled his fears as the trees closed in around them, still ominous and foreboding, with no love whatsoever for Durin’s kin.  Again he found himself relying on Legolas to gain passage for him, just as had been the case in Lórien.

Arod’s spirited footfalls were muffled here, the brush thick and the trees looming, the growing darkness doubled in shadow.  Legolas was in no hurry, but tarried to take in the sights and scents of ancient growing things that to Gimli were still utterly unattractive and unlovely.  Even their Elven cloaks had taken on the same drab green-grey of the hanging moss and lichen.  The shadows were deepening, the creatures of dusk beginning to stir.  Quite unconsciously Gimli tightened his grip about Legolas’ waist, finding his presence the only comfort he had.

Legolas laughed softly and lay a reassuring hand on his wrist.  “Now, you see, my friend; our places are exchanged.  Take heart, for if we passed unharmed through your caverns, we shall meet no evil now in this wood.”

“I fear I do not share your confidence,” Gimli grumbled, though in a hushed tone.  “Even Treebeard said the heartwood was bitter.  And the air is so stifling I can scarcely breathe.  This place is malevolent and perilous still.”

More of the low groaning and creaking could be heard as Arod carried them ever deeper into that gloomy labyrinth of dark roots and branches, boughs hanging heavy with leaves and choking vines, grey light and shadow swaying in a breeze that could not be felt.

“You fear too much, Gimli,” Legolas assured him, his voice at stark variance with the brooding atmosphere.  “Eryn Fangorn is not all rancorous, and even the darkest-hearted will suffer me to pass.” 

Something about his tone then brooked no argument.  And as naïve as such a statement would first appear, Gimli was tempted to believe there was truth in it.  He had begun to see that there was something about Legolas that set him apart, even from those inhabitants of fair Lórien.  Beneath his amiable exterior – laughing one moment, thoughtful the next – Legolas was made of sterner stuff.  Just a bit taller, just a bit stronger, just a bit fairer.  The differences were at first slight from a Dwarf’s view, but became only more evident with time as he “got his eye in,” as his own would say of appraising gems.  He smiled wryly at the thought.  To think he was now appraising Elves!

Something tugged then at the throat of Gimli’s cloak, and he flailed with a shout.  Legolas turned and rebuked the offending tree in his own tongue, and the gnarled branch drew back with a creak of protest, duly admonished.  In the ever deepening shadows it was perhaps a more unnerving incident than it would otherwise have been, and Gimli could not help shuddering in spite of himself.  Unnatural and eldritch, the whole freakish place!  Turning back to the path, they found the silent sentinels interweaving to prevent their passage, hemming them in on all sides, their thick canopies conspiring to banish what little light there was.

Arod shied and squealed.  In another moment, Gimli’s strength of heart would have failed him, and he would have leapt from Arod’s back with his ax ready to hew himself a path to safety beyond the reach of this wretched wood!  But ere he could do anything rash, Legolas drew himself up regally, the white aura growing about him again, this time in indignation.

“Galadhad o Fangorn, edro hi ammen!” he commanded sharply, his voice deepening in new and fearless authority.  And, lo and behold, after a moment of hesitation the black limbs drew back with the groaning din of stressed wood, leaving their path unhindered.

Starlight again fell through the trees in pale dapples.  Legolas clicked his tongue to the unnerved horse and they resumed their forward ride.  No others dared to touch him.

“They abide too near the Desolation of Saruman,” Legolas explained, doubtless in response to the constricting embrace of Gimli’s arms about his middle.  “They have been wronged, but they must learn again their discretion.”

Gimli said nothing lest he stammer out something unintelligible.  Frankly, he was glad there was no one else with them, or he would never have heard the end of it:  Gimli son of Glóin, clinging to an Elf as a child would his own mother.  But Legolas did not seem to mind, and his confidence was a comfort in itself.  Now that they had moved beyond the sphere of Aragorn’s influence, he noted, Legolas was free to be his own master.  Still, Gimli wished he would stop for the night!

As though sensing his companion’s nervous unrest, Legolas began to hum softly to himself, a fair lilting melody soothing both the Dwarf and the horse, whose mincing steps then renewed their easy rhythm.  Not only that, but it seemed to Gimli that even the trees began to sway subtly with the music of the Elf beneath their boughs; and he had to admit it was a fair heart indeed that was so empowered to win the friendship of a Dwarf, coax the devotion of all on four legs or wings, and charm the brooding Huorns of Fangorn.  He knew then that if Legolas could not placate Glóin and the rest of them, no one could.

At last Legolas halted Arod in a small clearing amid the forest, perhaps no more than twenty paces wide, but large enough for their needs.

“Come,” he said, dismounting and opening his arms to Gimli.  Again, it was a ticklish situation for Dwarvish pride, but this was Legolas.  Reluctantly but obligingly, Gimli allowed the Elf to help him dismount, and Legolas swept him from Arod’s back to the ground.  He then proceeded to quickly brush down his horse with a young fir cone shed before its time, after which he diligently picked all four hooves free of gathered mud, twigs and stones.  Arod reached around and affectionately sifted through his master’s hair while he was at this, inspiring a light Elvish laugh and some Sindarin endearments.  Gimli watched and wondered, for his own kind generally thought of their ponies as servants, dull-witted beasts to do their bidding.  Arod was practically the third member of their party, with no small devotion to his new and gentle master, lifting each hoof light as a feather at his touch, nickering softly as Legolas stroked his grey face as one might coddle a family hound.  All in all, it seemed they were quite taken with each other.

“If you’ve no objection, Legolas,” Gimli said at last, “I’d like to catch what sleep I may.”

“As you wish,” Legolas said.  “Do not trouble yourself, for I shall take the long watch.  Perhaps the depths of Fangorn will seem fairer by daylight.”

“Of that I have no great hope,” Gimli grumbled, settling down in a drift of leaves.

The night was a dark one, by no means silent, but with a strange stillness about it that still spoke of another presence than theirs.  Gimli’s last sight was of Legolas by filtered starlight, sitting placidly against the dark bole of a tree, gazing contentedly on what he no doubt found most comforting, the bright stars amid a living frame of foliage.  Arod had lain down in a great heap beside him, resting his noble head in the Elf’s lap, his tail swishing now and again against the leaves and sparse grass.

Gimli saw now what Elves were worth, but how would he instill that insight into the others of his race?  Legolas would be first put to the challenge of having his unorthodox friend accepted to his own household.  Those bridges would be crossed, but how was anyone’s guess.  Closing his eyes then, Gimli was haunted for a time by the shifting specter of Thranduil whom he had never before seen, alternating from the destainful despot of his father’s telling to the proud but benevolent lord Legolas described, and back again.  King Dáin had never vilified the Elvenking, but the remnant of Thorin’s Company still bore somewhat of the ill-will that had festered in their captivity, for to put bonds upon a Dwarf was no light thing.

He really must speak to Legolas about that . . .



The next morning, Gimli was at a loss for a moment to remember where in Mahal’s name he was.  There was music in the air, and he was warmed by a patch of bright sunlight.  Blinking sleep from his eyes and turning in his crunching bed of leaves, and saw then what must have been a moment out of another age.

Legolas had not bothered to wake him, for he was content enough as it was.  He was seated comfortably against a massive oak looking for all the world like a woodland prince of legend in the golden dapples of full morning, plaiting a length of young ivy into a wreath.  A silver-grey squirrel sat upon his shoulder, flicking his bushy tail as Legolas sang to the accompaniment of a light cascade of birdsong from above.  One of the squirrel’s fellows sat upon the Elf’s knee, up upon his hind legs as squirrels will do. 

“Ah, Gimli!” Legolas said then, noticing him at last, and flashing a genuine smile.  Gimli wondered if he had indeed ever seen him happier.

“Legolas,” he acknowledged in return, climbing to his feet, a bit stiff but otherwise content.  “Enjoying yourself, I see?”

Legolas laughed, a bright and fair sound that soon had Gimli laughing as well, though he knew not at what.  That Elf’s mirth was contagious!  There was no need to explain it – it was reason enough that the war was over.

Both squirrels had skittered up to Legolas’ shoulders and tangled themselves in his hair, chirring indignantly at Gimli.  Legolas coaxed them both onto his arm, twin tails waving vehemently.

“Endearing little pests,” Gimli smiled.  “But where’s the horse?”

“He will return,” Legolas assured him.  “You are ready then?”

“If you are, lad.”

“Very well.”  Legolas dismissed his squirrel friends after a fond farewell.  They both scampered up the tree, casting still more aspersions from a safe height upon the Dwarf they deemed to be the disruption of their pleasure. 

Gimli just waved a hand dismissively.  “He can’t stay to play all day, you little jabbering fools!” he called back.

Legolas had climbed to his feet and gave a shrill whistle.  A distant crashing sounded through the trees, and soon Arod came bounding back through the verdure.  Legolas left his wreath of ivy hanging from a bough, a token of Elvish blessing.

They walked far that day, for Gimli had begun to grow horse sore.  Legolas led them through the twisting ways of the forest, which did indeed seem brighter by daylight.  Musty still, but not so ominous as before.  He would stop often to run his hands over the time-scarred bark of a venerable tree, his fascination allowing the others a moment to catch up with him.  Gimli followed, left for the most part to his own thoughts, while Arod faithfully plodded along behind, free of all bonds but devotion.

“Mmm,” Legolas said thoughtfully, leaning with heart and head against one such tree, his fingers trailing lightly along the roughened skin.  “If only you could hear them, Gimli!  They have voices of their own.  They do not know me, but still they harbor memory of the Elves.”

“Talking trees,” Gimli said again, incredulous still.  “I must say, I have never in my life heard a tree talk to me.”

“Have you ever stopped to listen?” Legolas asked pointedly.  He then leapt lightly into the lower branches, climbing as though he had been born to it, which perhaps he had.

Arod came to stand behind Gimli, glancing for a moment after his master.  Then he seemed to heave an equine sigh punctuated with a terse snort.

“I know, lad,” Gimli said, rubbing a gauntleted hand over the horse’s shoulder, half-wondering that he was speaking to a horse at all.  Elves spoke to their mounts, but Dwarves gave their ponies orders, not conversation.  “He goes where we cannot follow.”  He did not say it, but already Gimli had learned to dread the rise of that mysterious malady named the sealonging, fearing it would take Legolas from him before his time.  He made his own efforts to stifle the subject whenever it arose, but he feared he could not hold it off forever.  It was terribly selfish of him, really, even while it would likely make him the pariah of Erebor.  They would both have much to suffer if their alliance was not condoned by either of their houses, and their bonds of friendship had yet to be tested in kindred fire.

Arod snuffled amiably, bumping Gimli aside with a velvet muzzle.  The Dwarf was tempted to take offense, but noted that the shapely ears were still upright in good-humor, the green ribbon trailing behind them.  Legolas had endeavored to explain to him the language of the ears, a dialect just as rich in nuance as was the Elvish language of the eyes that Aragorn had mentioned.  Dwarves prided themselves upon speaking plainly, though they were not without their own forms of subtlety, and Gimli learned to read these new methods of expression as well as he could.  Legolas was kind enough to make his emotions plain, at least those he wished to be generally known, but one could read much in his eyes if one knew how.  And even then Gimli felt as though he had scarcely probed the surface.  All Elves were deep, sometimes frighteningly so.

There came a rustling above, and soon Legolas descended lightly, limb to limb, alighting to the ground, pulling a stray leaf from his hair.  Gimli pulled his thoughtful embrace away from Arod, who looked askance at him.  Legolas merely continued on ahead.

“And just what was that all about?” Gimli demanded as they walked.  “You just don’t leave us at the foot of a tree without so much as explaining yourself!”

“Us?” Legolas asked, arching one dark brow.  “I intended to provide you some quality time with good Arod, of course.”

Gimli knew well that was not his true purpose; it likely had something again to do with the communion of Elf and Tree, of which he cared not to hear.  That Legolas spoke to these trees he found unnerving, even more so the thought that they spoke to him in return.  And there was that fey glint in his eye of one who walked the fringe of the preternatural.  Suddenly those silent leafed sentinels seemed possessed of more waking life than he had previously imagined.  Uncanny, the whole bit.

Some paces ahead, Legolas brushed through a patch of shrubbery, then breathed deeply the stirring of the fresh green scent behind him.  “Just look at it, Gimli!” he said, indicating the woods all around as they walked.  “It lives and breathes even as we do.  For many long and venerable years it has graced this corner of Middle-earth.  Imagine if you can the events they have witnessed!  They are among the last of the truly wild forests of the Elder Days, forests like those which bore my fathers.  Even such as this must have been Ossiriand of the Green Elves, the deep groves of Doriath, Neldoreth and Dorthonion.  Here dwell trees, if such you may call them, who are elder than I, elder even than Thranduil my father.  It does make me feel young again, and that is itself a blessing in these Fading Years.”

Gimli did not dwell upon the despairing note in his voice then, fearing to encourage a perilous subject.  Legolas did speak of Fangorn Forest as though he loved it.  Gimli himself now harbored no feeling for it one way or the other, though he was careful to leave his ax quiet.

But soon they were both silenced by the hoom-humming of another voice on the air.  Legolas’ eyes, sharper than most, soon descried the slender striding form passing them some distance away to the northwest, and his face lit gladly.

“Mae govannen, Bregalad o Fangorn!” he called, his very words brightening the wood about, and surprising Gimli again with their power.  “May your leaves never fall!”

“Hail, Legolas of the Woodlands!” returned Quickbeam, who had stopped his pacing to answer.  “May your eyes never dim!”

Legolas plunged swiftly through the brush to meet him, and Gimli was hard-pressed to follow, for even Arod bumped past him.  But he was no sluggard, and was not left too far behind.

“My errand was indeed fortunate if it brought me to cross your path again, Ernilgloredhel,” Quickbeam was saying, swaying forward in a graceful treeish bow.

“The pleasure is mine, Eryntirith,” Legolas assured him, returning the gesture.

Their discourse continued in the elven tongue, the young Ent’s voice surprisingly melodious for one of his kind, though it held nothing over the Elf’s, whose unerring fluency in his own dialect was music in itself.  For once Gimli regretted the harsh and clashing sounds of his own traditional language, but his stiff Dwarvish pride quickly banished the thought.  He could admire the Elvish tongue, but he would feel foolish speaking it.

In the end, Quickbeam insisted upon receiving them in his own Ent-house ere they went on, which was not far distant.  Legolas graciously accepted on behalf of them all, and their host led them to a green clearing by a stream surrounded by fair rowan-trees, where they sat comfortably in the lush grass, still thick in the fading days of summer.

“I heard Treebeard say you were of Mirkwood,” Quickbeam began, serving them both with bowls of a comfortable size filled to the brims with the fabled Ent-draught as hospitality decreed.  Even Arod was given to drink from a larger bowl of his own.  “But I had guessed that.  There are few of the Fair and Great Ones left now in the Mirkwood, and I was not surprised to learn your name.”

“For myself,” Legolas said, accepting his portion politely while Gimli looked warily into his, “I was surprised to find that you of the Onodrim yet attended to the cares of Mirkwood.”

“Oh,” Quickbeam nodded knowingly, his deep amber eyes distant for a moment, “word yet comes here from your wood, borne by the winged servants of Radagast who attends closely the doings of the Elvenking.”

“That he does,” Legolas confirmed, cautiously tasting the faintly glowing concoction.

“Mmmm,” Quickbeam mused after a long contented drink, or at least that seemed long to those of hasty race; “yes, goldenhaired-greeneyed-fellhanded-noblehearted-mightyvoiced-sonofthunder-twilightlord, Thranduilthalionoropherion Sindaranoeryngalen.  Valiant is he, and his fair scion no less so.”

Legolas inclined his head appreciatively.  Beside him Gimli wore a strange expression, experiencing the effects of Entish sustenance on mortals such as he, perhaps beginning to find his clothes a mite tight and watching his thick auburn beard curl.  Quickbeam laughed, for he laughed often, and set a new bowl down before Arod whose dark eyes glinted as he drank eagerly.  For Legolas it had served only to brighten his eyes and renew his glowing vitality, better than a full meal and a long night’s sleep. 

“A strange friendship is this,” Quickbeam said, gazing upon both of them.

“So says everyone,” Gimli observed, a bit tired of hearing it by that time.

“I fear how it may go with your kin,” continued the Ent.  “Oropherion is not one likely to harbor benevolence toward the Naugrim.”

“Not likely, no,” Legolas admitted.  “But Gimli himself had naught to do with his grievances, so I dare to hope that all will be well enough.  It is strange, as you say, but not unthinkable.”

“Not to you, perhaps, cleareyed-purehearted-greenleafofstarshadow.  But for myself, I would not at once assume the same of all others.”

A small flock of thrushes alighted in the rowans, singing brightly.  Some flitted to perch upon their friend Quickbeam while others were drawn at once to the Elf.  Quickbeam laughed again as two of the little brown birds whirled over Legolas’ head for one brief moment as a living crown before landing one on his shoulder and the other on his knee.  Gimli knew he would get fed up with so much impertinent wildlife bothering him, but Legolas seemed to enjoy it, making no move to shoo them away and letting them sit where they would.  His patience truly was proverbial, and Gimli found it difficult for a moment to reconcile that this gentle figure was the same that had mercilessly terrorized the battlefields of the south with him.  But far yet was the day when the son of Glóin would consent to be a bird-perch.

They stayed long in Quickbeam’s glad company, but as the hours flew by he was eventually obliged to return to Isengard bearing the saplings Treebeard had sent him for.

“You will give my compliments to Master Fangorn when you return to him,” Legolas said in parting.  “It may well be that I come again ere his wood grows much taller, so great has been my reward.”

“He will be pleased to hear you say it,” Quickbeam assured him, bowing graciously.  “Too seldom do the Fair Ones dare to pass his borders in these late days, much less the warriors of the North.  And farewell to you, Gimli stouthearted-strongarmed-orcbane.  I see well you have been named an Elf-friend and blessed.  May your path lead you both to well-deserved peace.”

“And farewell to you, Quickbeam of Fangorn Forest,” Gimli returned with a low Dwarvish bow and courtesy enough to please even Legolas.  “If your wood has not my love, it has earned my regard.”

“Such is tribute enough for us from one of the stone-masters,” Quickbeam smiled.  “Namárië!  Farewell, and may fortune follow you!”

Once Quickbeam had gone striding briskly away to the south, they turned again to each other.  Gimli loosened his belt a bit, and set about rebraiding his thick beard, which still seemed to have a life of its own as it might on a humid summer evening.  Arod pranced back to his master’s side, and of the three of them his stature seemed to have increased the most noticeably, adding at least a whole hand’s measure to his height, his neck arched proudly as his silver mane and tail flowed about freely, curled into bouncing ringlets at the ends, a fair echo even of Shadowfax. 

“Ah, Arod,” Legolas said with an affectionate lilt in his voice, stroking the horse who squealed quietly in delight.  “How kingly you are now, hm?  Now you will not seem small and light beside Aranaur and Maethor, Thalion and Erinmir.  No, you will not.”

Together they wandered the deep places of Fangorn for the next three days, Legolas thoroughly in rapture with the wood, Gimli learning to endure with good grace.  They had no further trouble with any of the lurking Huorns, which seemed charmed into willing docility by the sound of Elven laughter.  Soon they reached the living path of the Limlight river, leading them to the northern border at last, and there again into the full light of the sun.

Arod champed beneath them, eager to run on the open plain that stretched away before them.  Legolas glanced back one final time before fully facing the road ahead, but when he did he seemed every bit as eager as did the others to go on.  He set Arod off at a brisk pacing trot, which soon broke into a canter.

“None of your romping!” Gimli protested from behind, holding on for all he was worth.

“Oh, come now,” said Legolas.  “Allow Arod to show you his paces.  By nightfall we can be well on our way to Lórien!”







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