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Sons of Fellowship  by Conquistadora

“Gimli, I believe it is high time I told you a thing or two about my father ere you meet him.”


Gimli grunted in careless assent, seated on a log near their campfire as he turned on a hastily carven spit what had once been a hare.  It was a savory bit, but hardly enough red meat to be worth splitting between them to his mind.  Still, Legolas had been unwilling to fell the beautiful stag they had sighted before, wanting to give the wood an ample chance to recover after the blow it had suffered during the war.  But after three days of unmitigated northward riding, Gimli had been craving something more than the rations of waybread provided by the Galadhrim, and Legolas had been gracious enough to kill and clean this much for him.  Chances were he would let him have it all unless Gimli insisted upon sharing.  The scent was tantalizing, and in that light so was the plump grey squirrel skittering idly around Legolas where sat against a nearby oak.  It had been a nervous little thing an hour ago, but seemed to be settling down considerably now that Legolas had forgotten the knife he had been whetting and begun tossing it crumbs.  Crickets sang unperturbed in the dark underbrush all around, the only sound besides the crackling of the fire.


“First, you know well that he has no love for your kind,” Legolas explained, throwing what was left of the crust to his bushy-tailed admirer.  “I will not apologize for it, because it is common knowledge.  Beware the sack of Doriath, let alone the murder of Thingol.  Thranduil saw his grandfather Thoron fall beneath Dwarvish axes.  These things are long behind him, and he is fair enough not to see any blame in you, but it would be best overall to tread lightly around the subject.  The faces of Dwarves have been branded in his mind as the faces of foes, so it will be gracious of him to receive you at all.”


Gimli grunted again, this time somewhat indignantly.  The meat meanwhile had begun to give off tantalizing steam.  “Sounds difficult to get along with,” he scoffed.


“You will forgive my father if he is severe,” Legolas said sharply, leaving Gimli to wonder if it was given as advice or as a command.  “The years have made him so.”


The fire burned between them, the licking of its flames unchallenged for a time by speech.  But again Legolas was the first to heal the breach.


“Do try to make a good impression,” he pleaded.  “I may open the door, but only you can charm your way over the threshold.”


“Lovely.  Have I any charms that would sway Thranduil?”  Gimli took the meat from the fire and held it before him, enjoying the smell until it cooled enough to handle. 


“You would do well to avoid the subject of Thorin and of Glóin’s imprisonment,” Legolas suggested for starters, Arod snuffing and rustling in the brush behind him.


“So it comes to that at last,” Gimli complained sullenly, the ruffled pride of both houses standing between them as an almost impossible obstacle.  “Why did you have to do that in the first place?”


“Would you have done any different?” Legolas returned, his manner become subtly defensive.  “You knew Thorin in your youth, did you not?  I thought so.  How would Master Oakenshield have welcomed a trespassing party of uncouth Elves who refused to tell him their purpose or make any reasonable explanation of themselves?”


There was silence a moment.


“Clap them in irons,” Gimli begrudgingly admitted, “until their lord gave account of them.”


“As would be his right,” Legolas said, carefully running his blade over a whetstone.  “But even forgiving that, Thranduil would have been more agreeable had your father’s companions been likewise, and had Balin not brazenly insulted him.  I would have endeavored to mollify the situation, but I knew the cause was lost at that turn.”


Ruffled tempers settled after a moment, and Gimli pulled agitatedly at a bit of meat.  “You know that,” he said, “and I know that.  But we are not the ones we must convince.”


 “Indeed,” Legolas agreed; “Elbereth preserve me.  Glóin seemed less than forgiving from what little I saw of him.  I am not ashamed to say I went out of my way to avoid him in Rivendell.”


“And he you.  Forgiveness comes hard to the Khazâd.  And he thought it only natural that if he yet bore a grudge, then so did you and your father.”


Legolas smiled regretfully.  “At times, forgiveness comes hard to the Eldar as well.  I declined to attend Elrond’s reception that night on his account, despite Arwen’s elegant protests.”


“We had heard rumor that you were there.  Father was glad not to have seen you,” Gimli admitted, rather shamefacedly, as though remembering some less than flattering epithet.  He offered a portion of the hare.  “Do you want . . .?” but Legolas waved a hand dismissively, his grey rodent friend climbing its inquisitive way up to his shoulder.  “You know, the thought of Thranduil unnerves me.  But somehow I fear more to face my own father!”


Legolas smiled in fraternal sympathy, but then looked at him thoughtfully.  “What is it about Thranduil that unnerves you?” he asked, as though he sought perhaps to reassure him.


“That I know not what to expect.  Never have I lain eyes upon him.”  He paused to blow soothingly on his hot fingers.  “And to hear you against what I have heard from my own father, I could have sworn we spoke of two quite different individuals!”


A twisted grin.  “Glóin has eyes to see only through anger,” Legolas explained simply; “and I only through love.  To take the essentials from both visions will serve you well enough.”


“And what might those be?”


Legolas paused a moment in the firelight, choosing his words carefully.  “He is the wolf that guards the North,” he said at last; “a fearsome beast which children may frolic upon by the fireside without fear.  He is severe, but he is also gentle.  He is the drum that calls his people both to war and to merriment.  He has been a lion to those who provoke him and has torn many in his time; but his claws are oft withdrawn, and his great paws velveted.  If once you earn his friendship, you have naught to fear from him.”


“It is that which troubles me,” Gimli confessed, impressed by Legolas’ glowing tribute, and considering it against Glóin’s account of the arrogant barbarian-king who reigned in the sticks with his kin the foxes.  “Do you imagine I shall succeed in that?”


“You worry too much,” Legolas said easily, echoing his evaluation in Fangorn.  “That which sets us apart matters little in the face of what we share.”


Gimli employed the excuse of a full mouth while he attempted to digest that.  “What do you mean?” he asked at last.


"You are valiant, loyal, steadfast, dare I say honest, and these virtues he esteems above all else" Legolas explained.  "For what does it profit one to be fair of face if he be evil at heart?  Even the fairest lords of Arda should find his realm barred against them if they be not upright and fair also of mind.  If you can last the first hour without offending him, all will be well.  You must, you must understand the importance of first impressions on my father.  He will never love Glóin.”


“The sentiment is mutual, I’m sure,” Gimli said wryly, setting aside the inedible remnants of dinner and wiping his thick fingers on his lap.  But in truth, he was deeply thoughtful.  “How am I to speak to him during this fateful hour?”


Legolas smirked ill-contentedly at his companion’s flippancy, but told him the truth.  “He despises empty flatteries,” he said.  “But neither can he endure criticism from one he scarcely knows.  It remains for you to find a middle-ground.”


“First a tagalong, and now a diplomatic acrobat,” Gimli grumbled, though he chuckled at the same time.  “I have played more parts for your company than I now dare to count.  But tell me, if you will, what I am to expect otherwise.  It would not do to stare.”


“No,” Legolas agreed, musing.  “You have known only a few Elven lords that I may use in comparison.  There is absolutely nothing of Lord Elrond in him.  Celeborn he resembles more.  His are Celeborn’s eyes,” he decided firmly.  “Dark and green like pine, but with a wary light.”


“I remember them,” Gimli said.  “Gripping, but outshone by the Lady.”


“He is very like Celeborn,” Legolas continued absently, as though he had not heard Gimli speak at all.  “Or rather, like Celeborn as you have not known him.  He is wholly of the Sindar, and his loyalties lie but lightly elsewhere.  But . . . there is in him much that would evoke the Lady as well.”


Gimli’s head came up sharply at that, with new interest.  Legolas did not meet his gaze, but seemed still deep in thought, as though he were seeing new likenesses himself, placing them side by side in his mind.


“How can that be?” Gimli demanded.  “Did not the Lady come of the Immortal West?”


“She did.  And my father came of Doriath, where beneath the rule of a Maia they became the greatest of the Elves of this Middle-earth, near to match even the Great Ones of Valinor.  There is rumored even to be some Vanyarin blood in us, from the days before Time was reckoned, when all three Kindreds of the Eldar dwelt together before any had seen the West.” 


He paused, thoughtful again.  “But there is more,” he said, “more still that sets him apart.  Celeborn . . . he is not . . .”  He seemed at a loss for a moment to pin down the enigmatic attribute he wished to describe, groping for words.  “Celeborn has never slain his own kind,” he decided at last, a profession that sent a subtle chill up Gimli’s spine, though he knew not entirely why.  “All the Sindar who came to Greenwood from Beleriand endured the Kinslayings, and indeed both my mother and my father have borne blade against the Exiles.  They are blameless but still it lies like a shadow upon them, the same you might have seen in the Lady.  It has not cursed us, but it has certainly been no blessing.”  Filial regret showed plainly on his face.  “In that, you may better understand the bond of brotherhood that unites the present Lords of Lasgalen.  Young then, thrust into the unforgiving world beyond Doriath and reft of most all their kin, there were few left to whom they could turn, save my grandfather – one of the last surviving lords of the old realm.  He gathered what remained of them beneath his wing; they found in him another father, and Thranduil accepted them for brothers.  And sisters; my mother was among their number.  It may be said that they are all the heirs of Oropher.” 


A few long moments of empty silence passed before Legolas sighed and seemed unwilling to continue in that vein.  “So, what may you tell me of your father?”


“Well,” Gimli began, leaving the shades of Thranduil aside and looking back upon what was more familiar, “my kin came from the Blue Mountains when Thorin’s Company retook Erebor.”  Now it was his turn to pause, searching for words, but he abandoned then all attempt at delicacy.  “I will be frank with you, Legolas.  My father is not pleased with you.  The King bears no special ill will toward the Wood, rather indifferent personally and politically.  Still, those who remain of Thorin’s Company have brooded through the years on the indignities they suffered at the hands of your father and his servants.  Glóin was more courteous in Rivendell than he is wont to be.”  At this Legolas grimaced noticeably.  “And I dare say he speaks for them all when he curses ‘Thranduil and his spawn.’  At least, when he deigns even to speak his true name.”


Legolas’ grimace had twisted into a sneer, and Gimli did not blame him.  “Indignities!” he protested.  “If I were half so crass as they, I should still have shunned Haldir for daring to blind me in Lórien.  I am glad you are not so bullheaded, Gimli.  At times I feel I come near even to understanding you, but now I have small hope for the others.”


For a moment Gimli was unsure how to take that seeming compliment that at the same time disparaged his kin.  He reflected back upon what tales circulated within his home about the Elves, and vividly remembered what Legolas had said of looking for reflections in crooked glass.  Much would be refuted easily if they would only condescend to know the Elves.  He shuddered now to think what they would say of the Lady.


“If you endeavor to open your father’s eyes to me,” he said at last, “then I will do what I may to turn Glóin’s sight upon you.  Even if I must brand your image on the backside of his eyelids.”







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