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New Roads and Secret Gates  by Citrine

 2. Stone

Gandalf, it is good to see you again! How was your journey? Good, good. Here is my stool, do sit down in the shade, I will not need to sit while I work. Hand me that tool there, will you. Many thanks. It looks rather a fine bed, don't you think? A bit cold and hard for anyone else, but a kingly resting place for a Dwarf. The runes are in the usual style, but my fellow-Dwarves would look askance at me for the flowering vine I have carved here all along the edge, I believe. A bit too Elvish, perhaps. Yes, the carving is coming along very well, though it is slow. Once I could have chipped and moulded, whittled and carved all the day, but now my hands grow tired too soon.

Weariness grows in me, Gandalf, though I am loathe to admit it. My people are made of the very bones of the earth, but even stone is worn away by time. Only the earth itself is eternal...and Elves. There's where the rub lies, aye, that foolish Elf who has been my brother, my friend, my companion in battle and jest, what will he do with himself without old Gimli? If not for him, I would never have left Middle earth to come to this strange place of endless springtime. If not for him I would have grown old in the Halls under the Lonely Mountain, and laid myself down to sleep long, long ago. But then again, if not for him, I might never have looked again upon the loveliness of the Lady of the Galadhrim, or heard the song of her voice, or been blessed beyond all deserving by the light of her smile. It was a fair trade, aye, fair indeed, and I have got the better part of the bargain. For I may still find peace and sleep and forgetfulness in these Undying Lands, while he must go on with nothing to hold but memory.

But enough of that, I must look to my work. Ah, see where I have gone wrong with my chisel while wool-gathering. The Dark Tower will seem a bit short, but ah well. Look here, I am almost finished with this part, and have not done so bad, although I am not as skilled with carving figures as some of my folk: See, here is my Lord Aragorn before the Black Gate, and you are there, Gandalf, with Pippin-how it grieved him that Merry was not at his side!-and of course, there I am, behind that foolish young Elf. You'll pardon me if I have carved myself standing, axe in hand, rather than astride the horse. Never could abide the poor nervous beasts, and a Dwarf is allowed to indulge himself a bit when he is carving this sort of thing. If I did so, a more accurate rendering would be myself clinging to the Elf for dear life, or else prostrate on the ground-yes, yes, laugh if you wish, I do not mind-but the tale of my life will remain here for an age in stone, and that is not how I wish to be remembered.

It is good to be remembered well. Nothing truly perishes until it is forgotten, and it does comfort me that we mortals who fought in the Great War of the Ring will live eternally, in a way, in the memories of Elves...and you. It especially pleases me that the works and deeds of those little hobbits will live on, brave Frodo and his faithful Samwise, old Bilbo, and Merry, and young Pippin. A fine, fine folk, those little, laughing people, and I think of all the places and peoples of Middle earth I miss them most of all. Strange how I can yet see their faces, and the green hills of their little country, sharply in my mind's eye, while the images of even my own land and kin soften with the passing years, like a picture written in the dust. Is it that way with you as well, immortal though you are? I thought so. One can leave the Shire, but it never entirely leaves us, and that is not a bad thing, no, not at all. It is a kindly memory that warms our old bones.

Fine stone, this, is it not? A lovely colour and easily worked, not too brittle, and it warms quickly under my hand. It goes well with the stones of the three hobbits there, and it will weather well, I think. The Elves, and one Elf in particular, will wish to bury it in violets and sweet herbs and twining vines, but do not let him go too far, I beg you. Good stonework should not be hidden.

You will look after him, Gandalf, won't you? Legolas, I mean. My long friendship with him has changed me, made me apt to see the beauty of things that live and grow, to wonder at the loveliness of stars and not merely wish that I could pluck their brightness from the heavens for myself alone. And I think that he is changed now in his turn by our long acquaintance, more apt to see the worth of small things that are unlovely to look upon, and so inclined to mourn them all the more bitterly and ache with regret when they pass away. Do you see what I am saying? I think it may be difficult for him, when I am gone. Even in this land of light and bliss, it is a hard thing to be left on the far shore by all one's companions, to look across a gulf of unending time and to know that he cannot follow. And I wouldn't wish for him to do so, even if he could. Ai! Ai, what a foolish old fellow I have become in my old age! Thank you, I know that you will. Hand me that cloth, my eyes water from the dust. Bless you. Bless you, my friend.

But I have rambled too long. An old Dwarf's wagging tongue grows as long as his white beard, it seems. I will lay myself down to rest ere long, but I am not weary enough to wish to meet my Fathers today: The stone will wait. Gandalf, old friend, help me rise, I have grown stiff in the back from bending so low. Let us go find bread and meat, and something to quench our thirst. Let us bestir Legolas from his dreaming or singing, or whatever Elvish thing he is about, and invite him to join us at our meal. We'll fill our pipes and remember old times together, and drive the Elf mad with the smoke. Hah! Come, the road rises and it is a long walk for my old legs, give me your arm and I will lean upon you until we reach the sea. Khazad ai-menu! Hah!

the end

(of this, but more to come...)





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