HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 3:  A Clash of Cultures 

The King’s cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies.  It was also the dungeon of his prisoners.  So to the cave they dragged Thorin – not too gently, for they did not love dwarves.  ‘Flies and Spiders’, The Hobbit

Legolas stood motionless, palms pressed firmly to the rough bark, waiting patiently for the tree to rouse enough to recognize him.  He had not yet learned how to awaken a tree to full consciousness; he was young, and had spent much of his life learning other skills -- hunter, tracker, and warrior -- to provide for his father’s people, and aid in protecting Mirkwood from the creeping darkness that surrounded his home.  But given time and quiet, he could bring himself into harmony with a tree’s rhythm, singing gently until it awakened to his presence.

At last the enormous, ancient oak welcomed his voice, its stolid, measured awareness stirring to sense something other than sunlight and soil, water and air.  For him, it briefly halted its slow retreat into itself in preparation for the winter chill that as yet lay lightly upon the valley of Imladris.  For a long, treasured moment, Elf and tree acknowledged the other, and Legolas felt the communion with green, growing life that brought him such satisfaction.

As the sun passed mid-sky, that part of him always alert to his surroundings heard bright voices far off, and he smiled; the hobbits were approaching.  Eager for any opportunity for speech with them, he bid the tree peace in its winter sleep and health in a vibrant spring.  But even as he opened his eyes to the bright sunshine, his keen ears picked up a different voice, rough and unlovely, and footfalls heavy enough to make him grimace in distaste.  The Dwarf.

It had been quite unsettling to see Dwarves at the Council.  Although welcomed courteously by Lord Elrond, surely nothing good could come of such folk meddling in matters concerning the One Ring.  He had waited in vain for this last one to leave Imladris, but Gimli son of Glóin seemed determined to stay.

Legolas considered warning the tree, calming it, but realized there was no need; it knew nothing of the history of Dwarves, creatures who cared more for dead stone than living wood.  It stood without fear, and why not?  No tree in Imladris had ever known fire, flood, or cruelty.  Here, as in a few other special places in Middle-earth, there was peace.  Not for the first time, Legolas was grateful to have been sent here, no matter the shame of his message to the Council.  To his surprise, no one had blamed him for Gollum’s escape; and after several weeks spent in quiet reflection, in which the valley itself calmed and focused him, his thoughts turned in new directions.

The hobbits were unique in his experience.  He had been fascinated to discover that the mysterious savior of the Dwarves from his father’s prison was a resident here in Imladris, and that Bilbo Baggins’ heir and kin had carried the Enemy’s Ring through perils and darkness... and yet prevailed.  Here was a new, young race, obviously capable of great deeds, and Lord Elrond himself had announced that the hour of the Shire-folk was at hand.  He wished to aid the Ring-bearer, and an idea had come to him unlooked-for... but he needed more time before approaching Lord Elrond with his request.

“Mr. Legolas!”  Sam ran to greet him with great excitement.  “Did you know we would be out here today?”

“No, Sam,” Legolas said, kneeling to greet his friend.  “It is a happy chance only; I deemed today a good time to renew an old friendship.”  He indicated the massive oak.  “I knew this tree as a seedling, several hundred years ago.  Now its roots stretch deep and wide, nourished by the sweet waters and good soil of this valley.”

“Did you talk to it?” Sam asked in wonder.

“In a sense.  It fares well, which brings me joy.”

“Legolas!” Merry called cheerily.

“Greetings, Merry... Frodo.” Legolas greeted the other hobbits warmly, then rose to his feet.  He would not kneel before a Dwarf. 

“Good day, Master Dwarf.”

“Master Elf,” Gimli responded, with no enthusiasm.

“Hello, Legolas,” Frodo said.  “I see you beat us to it.”

“To what?” Legolas asked.

Merry pointed through the trees.  There, gaping in dark mystery, was the entrance to a cave.

“Is that what you seek?” Legolas asked.  “I have visited this area before, but did not explore the hill itself.”

“Do you jest?” Gimli blurted out in amazement.  “The entrances to Mahal’s realm surely warrant as much respect as any tree or bush.”

“Now Gimli,” Frodo said soothingly.  “Perhaps Legolas doesn’t need to see more caves; he grew up in one, remember.”

“Forgive me, Frodo, but that is not entirely true,” Legolas corrected gently.  “My father’s stronghold was less a home to me than the forest itself.”

At the mention of Thranduil’s halls, Gimli’s eyes glittered dangerously.  Elves were foolish and without reverence for those things of greatest importance; they walked the earth without truly seeing it, lacking a respectful understanding of its power and potential.  Dwarves alone were as rugged and enduring as stone.  Dwarves alone had been entrusted by Mahal with the courage and skill to temper the very foundations of Arda.  He could hear his father’s voice: ‘Only those who delve into the ground, and spend a lifetime coaxing out its secrets, learn anything of true value.’  To work with stone required an artist’s eye, a gentle yet firm hand, the patience to see a job done.  Even the hobbits had more wisdom than Elves, being wise enough to burrow into hills and thus sleep within the safety and comfort that only earth and stone could offer.

But he said nothing; he had promised his father he would be polite, and he had been... so far.

“We're just going to take a peek,” Merry said, putting down his basket.  “Erestor says it's very beautiful.  Do you want to join us, Legolas?”

“Surely you’re not frightened of the dark,” Gimli challenged, unable to help himself.

“Not at all, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said calmly, the dislike he felt for this uncouth being becoming difficult to suppress.  He was a king’s son, after all, and would not let anyone think him weak or cowardly.  He turned to Sam and smiled warmly.  “Shall we view this cave together, my friend?”

“Go on, Sam,” Frodo said.  “Merry and I will be along in a moment.”

Sam was so thrilled, he forgot he was still carrying the basket of food, and not the one holding the flowers he wished to show Legolas.  Even after a month in Rivendell, he could scarcely believe his luck at finding Elves everywhere he went, who were all very kind, and patient with his (and Mr. Pippin’s) questions.  Elves were a marvel; their faces were lit with more than sunlight, it seemed, and they had lived through thousands of years of history.  (And they were all extremely respectful of his master, which counted for a lot in his eyes.)  Their voices were gentle and musical, and the singing which he heard every night seemed to transport him to other times and other places.

But being this close to the steep and towering hills made Sam feel very small.  He wondered if the place where his master needed to take the Ring could possibly be any higher, and how far away it was.   The world was so very much bigger than he had imagined.

 “What’s behind the mountains?” he wondered aloud.

“Mirkwood,” Legolas responded, thinking of home.

“Erebor,” Gimli said at the same time.  He glowered at the Elf, who looked down at him cooly.

“I’d love to hear about both places,” Sam said, “as I’m not likely to see neither.  You go first, Mr. Gimli.”

Eager to see the cave, and mollified somewhat by Sam's obvious interest, Gimli began to walk, with Sam and Legolas at his side, and was soon speaking animatedly about the glories of the Lonely Mountain.  Frodo lagged behind with Merry, allowing the trio to get well ahead of them.  As soon as Gimli, Legolas, and Sam disappeared into the mouth of the cave, he turned to his cousin with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Those two don’t get on very well, do they?”

Merry had been holding back laughter, but now it bubbled free.  Frodo started grinning, then started laughing himself, until both were collapsing against the other in mirth.

“They’re not even trying to get to know one another,” Frodo gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his face.  “They're like two old gaffers, sniping about whose method for growing vegetables is the best.  Do you suppose that Sam can talk some sense into them?”

“If anyone can, it’ll be Sam,” Merry said.  “Come on, let’s poke about a bit in that cave and get back.  Pippin will be looking for us.”

“Isn’t it wonderful how he and Bilbo are getting along?” Frodo beamed, as they continued to walk.

“Yes, it is,” Merry agreed.  He put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders.  “I’m so glad you got to see Bilbo again.  I know what it means to you -- that he was here when you woke up.”  Frodo started to speak, but Merry stopped him.  “You would have left the Shire anyway, Ring or no Ring, wouldn’t you?  You needed to see him again.”

“Yes,” Frodo said, then smiled.  “I wonder if I would have got away from the Shire without the lot of you catching on?”

“You wouldn’t have made it even as far as Bywater,” Merry said confidently.  “You’re stuck with us, cousin, no matter what.”

“I know that now,” Frodo said softly.  “I’m glad.”

** TBC **