Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Legolas took a deep breath, like one that drinks a great draught after long thirst in barren places.

“Ah! the green smell!” he said. “It is better than much sleep. Let us run!”

“Light feet may run swiftly here,” said Aragorn. “More swiftly, maybe, than iron-shod Orcs. Now we have a chance to lessen their lead!”

...

“The brooch of an elven-cloak!” cried Legolas and Gimli together.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,” said Aragorn. “This did not drop by chance: it was cast away as a token to any that might follow. I think Pippin ran away from the trail for that purpose.”

“Then he at least was alive,” said Gimli. “And he had the use of his wits, and of his legs too. That is heartening. We do not pursue in vain.”

“Let us hope that he did not pay too dearly for his boldness,” said Legolas. “Come! Let us go on! The thought of those merry young folk driven like cattle burns my heart.”

Gimli would claim, later, that he did not remember much of the days they spent running and tracking the hobbits and the party of Orcs that had taken them. Only Legolas knew that he did not speak true; or at least, if Aragorn did not believe him, he did not say.

(Neither did Legolas, but a swift glance at Gimli one time was all he needed to make it clear he knew Gimli lied.)

Once, Gimli perhaps would have spoken with pride of their great chase, and reminded his companions of the hardiness of Dwarves. Boromir particularly would—

But the thought of Boromir burned, and stayed his tongue. Even later, much later, when his deeds were praised by those around him, he said nothing.

This was not, however, the true reason he would later claim not to remember those days.

In truth, grief and fear drove him, moved one foot in front of the other without his input, propelling him faster and ever onward. He existed only in a black cloud of it—even in daylight, he barely noticed the sun or his surroundings, other than the ground in front of him. When Aragorn and Legolas debated which way to go, or discussed the tracks left by the Orcs, he would come out of his haze long enough to add to the discussion, but when they ran again, he descended back into his worry.

Thus it was that his body did not tire, because neither did his fear. Each step brought a new thought, and his thoughts were racing.

A step, and he thought of the hobbits running, footsore and surrounded by foul enemies. Another step, and the lash on their legs. Another step, how hungry they must be. Another step, how afraid they would be also. Another step, and the pain in his own feet made him wonder about their pain. And thus the cycle repeated, over and over, for what felt like days.

Once, Gimli would have resented Legolas for blithely running on as though he did not notice the exhaustion of his companions, all while making some ridiculous remark about trees; certainly the ache in his feet did not agree that a smell could be better than sleep. Elves! But now, instead of scowling, Gimli smiled wearily, or would have smiled if he could have, or at least he glared while still lifting a corner of his mouth, tired but against his will endeared.

He exchanged a glance with Aragorn that spoke volumes, but Aragorn agreed in some part with Legolas, for he pushed them even harder onward.

And of course, running on green grass was indeed easier. They made good time. It did not calm Gimli’s fear, but the burning of his limbs at least felt as though it was not in vain.

The finding of the brooch of Lórien did ease his heart just a little, and he felt as though he let out a breath he had not been aware he’d been holding.

Legolas, as he was increasingly wont to do, spoke aloud the words in his heart. Gimli’s eyes found his, and his face must have spoken for him, for Legolas grasped his shoulder tightly, just for a moment, almost too briefly for Gimli to grab his hand and squeeze it hard.

They did not speak any words aloud, and were soon running again, too swiftly for speech. But now Gimli knew that despite Legolas’s sometimes light words, he did not run alone through a cloud of fear.

This did not lighten his heart or his feet, but it did strengthen his will.

Gimli ran on.

Once, Legolas would have been increasingly frustrated with the slowness of his companions. No Elf with a quarry like this to chase would be able to rest, but these mortals and their constant need of sleep slowed them down; he feared they would escape despite their speed

But he had been humbled thrice over, even before the journey began, when he lost Gollum—who was to say that he could do better? And Aragorn’s skill as a tracker was unrivaled even among Elves, and Gimli was sturdy and untiring under the standards of mortals, and they were both as strong warriors as could ever be hoped for. Legolas would not have traded either of them for an army of Elves.

Still, fear rose in his heart with every delay, even the ones that brought slivers of hope.

He saw the same fear in Gimli’s eyes, and felt a wave of guilt. He did not resent his companions, but he still wished to go faster, and it seemed Gimli did too. It was not his fault.

Yet there was also grim determination in the set of Gimli’s mouth, and at last Legolas found heart. There was yet something to learn from mortals, and right now he was learning that there were things he could not change, but he could carry on trying to without despair.

Grateful once more for the stubbornness of Dwarves, Legolas ran on.

Before dawn was in the sky [Aragorn] woke and rose. Gimli was still deep in slumber, but Legolas was standing, gazing northwards into the darkness, thoughtful and silent as a young tree in a windless night.

“They are far far away,” he said sadly, turning to Aragorn. “I know in my heart that they have not rested this night. Only an eagle could overtake them now.”

“Nonetheless we will still follow as we may,” said Aragorn. Stooping he roused the Dwarf. “Come! We must go,” he said. “The scent is growing cold.”

Gimli knew now that Elves slept differently than Men and Dwarves, needing it more rarely and sometimes able to rest their minds and dream while seeming awake. Legolas usually laid down and slept—or made a good impression of sleeping—with the rest of them, when it was not his turn to be on watch.

On this night, Legolas did not sleep.

Gimli slept deeply, managing to fight off his worry, but when Aragorn woke him, he felt an unease that he could not place. It was only once they began running again, under a gray and fitful sky, that he realized he had missed the warmth of Legolas next to him. Since Lothlórien, Legolas had always slept close to him, solid and comforting. He was quick to tease Gimli about snoring, but still slept in the same place, every night.

Gimil did not blame him for staying awake all night, watchful and worried as they all (but especially Legolas) were. But he missed him, hated seeing him so drawn and worried. He only spoke to say aloud his doubts about Aragorn’s choices, returning to ways that had seemed stiff and sanctimonious to Gimli when they first met. Now he knew that Legolas only talked in that way when he was anxious. He also knew that his own words were tight and brusque.

They did not fight as before, but they both cast worried looks at each other when they thought the other was not looking. And even when Gimli should have forgot it, he felt the loss of Legolas by his side all day.

“Now do I most grudge a time of rest or any halt in our chase,” said Legolas. “The Orcs have run before us, as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them. I fear they have already reached the forest and the dark hills, and even now are passing into the shadows of the trees.”

Gimli ground his teeth. “This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!” he said.

“To hope, maybe, but not to toil,” said Aragorn. “We shall not turn back here. Yet I am weary.” He gazed back along the way that they had come towards the night gathering in the East. “There is something strange at work in this land. I distrust the silence. I distrust even the pale Moon. The stars are faint; and I am weary as I have seldom been before, weary as no Ranger should be with a clear trail to follow. There is some will that lends speed to our foes and sets an unseen barrier before us: a weariness that is in the heart more than in the limb.”

“Truly!” said Legolas. “That I have known since first we came down from the Emyn Muil. For the will is not behind us but before us.” He pointed away over the land of Rohan into the darkling West under the sickle moon.

“Saruman!” muttered Aragorn. “But he shall not turn us back! Halt we must once more; for, see! even the Moon is falling into gathering cloud. But north lies our road between down and fen when day returns.”

Aragorn’s face, even more than Gimli’s, was every day more drawn and worried. Legolas found himself full of anxious fear on all accounts; for the hobbits, for the desperation of their chase, and for his companions as well. At night he paced as they slept, unable even to sit down. Aragorn muttered in his sleep as he never had before, but only in Elvish; Gimli shifted much, something he never did when Legolas had slept close to him.

Not for the first time, he wished he knew more about mortals. How often did they truly need to sleep? Were they both pushing themselves too hard, and was Legolas’s itch to keep going hurting them? Or could they be pushed harder? How much was normal for a man and a dwarf to run in one day? How long, really, could Dwarves go for before they tired? Was it a good or a bad sign that Gimli was snoring faintly?

(Under normal circumstances, Gimli never snored. Legolas only pretended that he did in order to hear him grumble.)

Legolas wondered now if laying down next to him would make it stop. But he could not do it, not now when he was so restless to run and run and run. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the horizon, hoping to see something new.

He could not even appreciate the stars above, for their faint light only mocked him, with the time they were wasting. He had never been so conscious of time, never been unable to let it pass in the manner of Elves. He’d recently learned to doubt the future, but now each moment was urgent, filled with peril, and thus he worried the whole night through, insensible even to the stars.

There was nothing new to see, not all night, until the sun finally rose and turned the sky deep red. At the sight, Legolas’s heart jolted in his chest as it never had before. If he squinted, he could see to Fangorn Forest now, and he did not understand what he was seeing; but he did not stop to think on it longer before waking his companions in a hurry.

As before Legolas was first afoot, if indeed he had ever slept. “Awake! Awake!” he cried. “It is a red dawn. Strange things await us by the eaves of the forest. Good or evil, I do not know; but we are called. Awake!”

The others sprang up, and almost at once they set off again.

...

“Well, let us go on,” said Gimli. “My legs must forget the miles. They would be more willing, if my heart were less heavy.”

They spoke about it once, in a brief stop for water and to slow their racing hearts. “My heart is heavy too,” said Legolas. He was looking at the sky and into the lands beyond, straining, as he had done in every moment since they had set out.

“I know,” said Gimli. Legolas looked at him in surprise, and he managed a small smile. “Is it so strange, that I can read grief and fear in your unwillingness to stop?”

“Not anymore,” said Legolas. “I suppose I should expect you to know me as well as I know myself, or better.”

They looked at each other long—Gimli found that this did not help to calm his heart—until Aragorn cleared his throat nearby.

“We should continue,” he said. Gimli noticed that he was looking up, staring intently at the sky. “The day wanes,” he added, as if to explain why.

“A moment longer,” said Gimli. “I have not yet caught my breath.”

Aragorn looked at him for a moment, then sighed and sat down next to him on the flat limestone slab he had chosen to rest on. Good bones, thought Gimli absentmindedly. He might like this country, if he got a chance to see it some other way than on a desperate chase to rescue his friends.

The thought of Merry and Pippin brought back a fresh wave of fear that made him stand up again, for though the heaviness of his heart made it hard to run, he, like Legolas, could not do anything else while the hobbits were still in peril.

Legolas saw the expression on his face, and it seemed he also knew Gimli as well as he knew himself, for he understood instantly. “You are ready?”

“No,” said Gimli. “But I cannot sit any longer.”

“And I just sat down,” Aragorn said, so quietly he almost did not hear, but when Gimli looked an apology at him, he gave a half smile that said he was not angry.

“Have a little lembas first,” said Legolas. “The hobbits would be appalled at how little we have eaten.”

“They would,” said Gimli, smiling and taking this advice. He saw in his friend’s face how the thought of them burned, for the same feeling was in his own heart. “But then we must go, for they must be eating even less.”

Aragorn and Legolas did not respond, for there was nothing to be said to that. They all knew; and were trying not to think about it. But when they began to run again, they ran all the harder.

The night grew ever colder. Aragorn and Gimli slept fitfully, and whenever they awoke they saw Legolas standing beside them, or walking to and fro, singing softly to himself in his own tongue, and as he sang the white stars opened in the hard black vault above. So the night passed. Together they watched the dawn grow slowly in the sky, now bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came. It was pale and clear. The wind was in the East and all the mists had rolled away; wide lands lay bleak about them in the bitter light.

One of the many times Gimli awoke that night, he lay there long, listening to Legolas’s soft singing. After a moment he felt eyes on him, and turned his head to see in the bright starlight Aragorn, also awake, watching him.

The stars were so bright and his night vision was so good (even for a Dwarf; it was something he was known for in his home) that he could read Aragorn’s expression. There was a silent question there, that Gimli understood well enough but did not yet know how to answer. He could only give a helpless, resigned shrug. What happened, would happen, he wanted to say. His will alone was not at work.

Legolas stopped singing suddenly, and spoke softly into the darkness. “You should both be asleep,” he said. “If my song keeps you awake, I will stop.”

“No,” said Gimli. The word fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. “It is not your song that keeps us from sleep. Please, do not stop.” He felt his mind stray to a word in the language of his hands, as it so often did in moments when he could not find the right words aloud, but he could not think of one that was appropriate for the feeling of the night and the stars, and the sound of Legolas’s soft singing nearby.

There was a long pause, before Legolas finally smiled, softly, and resumed singing. Gimli closed his eyes, to avoid meeting Aragorn’s eyes if nothing else, and tried to fall asleep again.

He still slept in fits, half-waking for most of the night, but at least the song of Legolas ran through his restless dreams.

The Rider looked at them with renewed wonder, but his eyes hardened. “Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!” he said. “Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe.” He turned a cold glance suddenly upon Legolas and Gimli. “Why do you not speak, silent ones?” he demanded.

Gimli rose and planted his feet firmly apart: his hand gripped the handle of his axe, and his dark eyes flashed. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides,” he said.

“As for that,” said the Rider, staring down at the Dwarf, “the stranger should declare himself first. Yet I am named Éomer son of Émund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark.”

“Then Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin’s son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you.”

Éomer’s eyes blazed, and the Men of Rohan murmured angrily, and closed in, advancing their spears. “I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” said Éomer.

“He stands not alone,” said Legolas, bending his bow and fitting an arrow with hands that moved quicker than sight. “You would die before your stroke fell.”

Éomer raised his sword, and things might have gone ill, but Aragorn sprang between them, and raised his hand. “Your pardon, Éomer!” he cried. “When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?”

Time had moved so slowly, each minute and hour a struggle not to scream in frustration at the wearing away and wasting of it. Now it snapped back into place and sped up rapidly for Legolas, who was not used to it moving this strangely at all. Suddenly everything was happening at once; there were horses and strange men all around him; they were demanding answers; they were insulting the Lady Galadriel; they were insulting Gimli.

Legolas would have killed the man without a thought, and he did not care.

He met Aragorn’s eyes defiantly even after the situation was diffused, even after Aragorn revealed a small measure of his authority and power; he was awed but not afraid. But he saw no anger there, only simmering amusement. Well, good! He would not apologize, now or ever. Anyone, no matter who they were or what had happened, who threatened Gimli would meet a hard end from his arrow’s point, or his knife if he had to use it.

Gimli was also not cowed, for though he eased his fingers off of his axe, his defiant stance did not change. When he met Legolas’s eyes, there was a fire there that took his breath away. And yet Legolas did not look away; indeed, he never could. Such was his fate. He only wished he could say aloud what was in his heart, that he would cut down every single foe that came their way.

His mind was not so addled by—emotion—of what kind he could not yet say—that he did not notice Aragorn skillfully managing, somehow, to make a friend and an ally out of this man and learn all that he had to tell about the Orcs his company had slain. He was not distracted from their mission for even a moment, no matter how tense the situation. A defeat, then, for Legolas the Elf and Gimli the diplomat!

And still he would do it again.

There was great wonder, and many dark and doubtful glances, among his men, when Éomer gave orders that the spare horses were to be lent to the strangers; but only Éothain dared to speak openly.

“It may be well enough for this lord of the race of Gondor, as he claims,” he said, “but who has heard of a horse of the Mark being given to a Dwarf?”

“No one,” said Gimli. “And do not trouble: no one will ever hear of it. I would sooner walk than sit on the back of any beast so great, free or begrudged.”

“But you must ride now, or you will hinder us,” said Aragorn.

“Come, you shall sit behind me, friend Gimli,” said Legolas. “Then all will be well, and you need neither borrow a horse nor be troubled by one.”

A great dark-grey horse was brought to Aragorn, and he mounted it. “Hasufel is his name,” said Éomer. “May he bear you well and to better fortune than Gárulf, his late master!”

A smaller and lighter horse, but restive and fiery, was brought to Legolas. Arod was his name. But Legolas asked them to take off saddle and rein. “I need them not,’ he said, and leaped lightly up, and to their wonder Arod was tame and willing beneath him, moving here and there with but a spoken word: such was the Elvish way with all good beasts. Gimli was lifted up behind his friend, and he clung to him, not much more at ease than Sam Gamgee in a boat.

Legolas’s voice was choked as he made the offer, but it seemed no one noticed. Aragorn was the only one familiar enough with Elves to have the ear to catch such a thing, and he was thankfully occupied with his own horse. Legolas could only hope that Gimli was equally distracted, or at least not paying too close attention.

The offer was not altogether altruistic. Something in the pit of his stomach swooped when Gimli wrapped his arms around his waist—tightly, but Legolas could not say truthfully that he minded.

He was taking deep, calming breaths, when Aragorn caught his eye again, and once again there was deep amusement in his face.

Legolas did not deign to glare back. Indeed, his attention was immediately torn away, for Gimli was once again defending Galadriel, and it was again hard to breathe. He was still astonished when his friend had such a fire in him on the subject of Elves—and it made his heart race.

They rode away not a moment too soon. He needed something else to think about, and fast.

Time moved swiftly on, now, every second bringing change, a new thought, a new mystery. Legolas felt that he hardly breathe, yet still he continued to. His lungs were tight with it.

Gimli had not noticed how cold he was until he was pressed against Legolas, and was suddenly warmed through again, as he had not been since they had ceased to sleep side by side every night.

If he clung even tighter, to this warmth (and strong back) in a cold world, no one had to know the reason why.

““We are near to the mountain-marches of the traitor Saruman. Also we are on the very edge of Fangorn, and it is perilous to touch the trees of that wood, it is said.”

“But the Rohirrim made a great burning here yesterday,” said Gimli, “and they felled trees for the fire, as can be seen. Yet they passed the night after safely here, when their labour was ended.”

“They were many,’ said Aragorn, “and they do not heed the wrath of Fangorn, for they come here seldom, and they do not go under the trees. But our paths are likely to lead us into the very forest itself. So have a care! Cut no living wood!”

“There is no need,” said Gimli. “The Riders have left chip and bough enough, and there is dead wood lying in plenty.” He went off to gather fuel, and busied himself with building and kindling a fire; but Aragorn sat silent with his back to the great tree, deep in thought; and Legolas stood alone in the open, looking towards the profound shadow of the wood, leaning forward, as one who listens to voices calling from a distance.

When the Dwarf had a small bright blaze going, the three companions drew close to it and sat together, shrouding the light with their hooded forms. Legolas looked up at the boughs of the tree reaching out above them.

“Look!’ he said. "The tree is glad of the fire!”

It may have been that the dancing shadows tricked their eyes, but certainly to each of the companions the boughs appeared to be bending this way and that so as to come above the flames, while the upper branches were stooping down; the brown leaves now stood out stiff, and rubbed together like many cold cracked hands taking comfort in the warmth.

Legolas was no tracker such as Aragorn was, and he left the search for the hobbits to him gladly. He was driven near to distraction by having Gimli clinging to him for leagues and leagues, but Aragorn did not seem to need him, which was well.

Strangely, as distracting as it was, Legolas missed Gimli’s warm presence when they stopped at the battlefield on the edge of Fangorn to search of it. They found nothing, but the light was growing dim and Aragorn wished to search again in the morning, and so they were forced to make camp.

By then, he had found a new distraction.

The voices of the forest were new, such voices as Legolas had never heard before, and he stood long, trying to hear them. He wondered if they mourned the loss of the cut trees as he did; if they were angry at all intruders, or merely sad. Certainly there was sadness in this forest, down deep, but he could not catch anything they said or felt on the surface.

Legolas felt, suddenly, a strange feeling he had never quite had before. He found himself wondering if he would be able to return to Fangorn; if he would ever have the time. Even if they entered the forest, which he could not deny was his hope, he would not be able to explore and wander as he wished. They had a mission, one he did not begrudge and would not turn away from, but never before had he found himself worrying about having time.

Perhaps he had been around mortals too long, and it was affecting him. But somehow he did not think so. The thought had struck him like a strange premonition; he did not know what it meant.

A sound jolted him out of his reverie, one familiar but jarring, and he realized that he was hearing Gimli’s flint and steel as he had not in days. They had not had the chance to build a fire since they’d left Amon Hen, and the sound brought him sudden comfort. His gaze strayed to his friend’s skilled hands as he threw sparks into the kindling and began to build the fire.

Gimli, seeming to feel eyes on him, looked up after he had finished placing the first round of thin sticks on the fire, a question in his eyes. Caught, all Legolas could think to say was—

“Will you teach me?”

Gimli stared at him for a moment, but then his eyes crinkled in a laugh and Legolas relaxed a fraction. “Can you not build a fire?”

“Not so well as you,” said Legolas in complete honesty. “I never get sparks on the first try like you, nor do they always land where I want them to.”

“Seems a matter of needing more practice, not teaching,” Gimli said, adding more wood to the fire.

“Or perhaps you are hoarding secret wisdom of the Dwarves so as to be more impressive to your companions,” Legolas shot back. His heart was lifting as it had not done in days.

Gimli snorted. “Secret wisdom,” he grumbled. “Is nothing sacred to you anymore?”

“If I really am asking about something you cannot tell—” Legolas began, sure that he was not yet still wanting to be cautious, but Gimli flapped a hand at him impatiently.

“Fine, fine. Come here and show me what you’re doing wrong.”

Legolas chanced a look at Aragorn as he went to sit down next to Gimli, but saw that he was sitting some paces further away from where he had been, still leaning against a large tree and not looking at them. Perhaps he had needed a more comfortable place to sit and think, and had decided to find a different tree, Legolas thought, and turned his attention back to Gimli.

Gimli handed him the steel, and the sharp stone he’d been using. Legolas wrapped the steel around his knuckles, but Gimli stopped him.

“You can do that,” he said. “But if you miss often, you will tear your knuckles open with the stone.”

“I have done that,” Legolas admitted. “But I had not seen them used any other way. Already you teach me.”

“You can just hold it,” Gimli said, and when Legolas adjusted his grip, he smiled—his face was very close—and gestured to the stone. “Try, then, and let’s see what happens.”

Legolas did, feeling clumsy as he had not in many years, and as he had predicted, it took several tries to throw sparks.

“Use a sharper edge of the rock,” Gimli said, and to Legolas’s delight he reached and turned the stone in Legolas’s hands. Warmth seemed to spread from the place he touched him, all the way through his body, but he did not pull away, only tried again.

A spark threw on the second try.

“See?” said Gimli. “Here, you can use this kindling—hold the stone right above it.” He adjusted Legolas’s hands once again, and Legolas now felt his face grow warm. Thank goodness Aragorn was not watching them right now—he wouldn’t say a word, but Legolas did not want to answer to the look he would be giving them.

Legolas tried again. “Faster,” said Gimli, and so he followed instructions—and the kindling caught after many sparks.

Gimli grinned at him.

“I would have you try with a piece of burnt cloth on the flint, if I had some,” he said. “It would catch faster and you might find it easier. But I have not had the material to make any in many days.”

“You will have to give me another lesson, then,” said Legolas. He hoped he did not sound as breathless as he felt. Gimli was still very, very close. “Maybe someday I shall surpass you.”

“I should like to see you try,” said Gimli, laughing. He moved to tend to the fire, which to Legolas’s surprise was dying a bit. He had never seen a fire under Gimli’s care struggle, nor Gimli ever lose focus on building one.

Had Gimli been as distracted as he was?

It was a pleasant thought, but one he did not have time to dwell on. Gimli soon had the fire blazing, and Aragorn came over to join them.

When he saw the tree warming itself by the fire and pointed it out, his companions looked at him in surprise, though he did not know why. Why should a tree not be glad of warmth, like all other creatures? Certainly trees did not love fire if it was too close, but that was true for all living things. They also did not take offense, if the wood was already dead and not cut, any more than they minded a fungus growing on fallen logs. It was the way of the forest, that all things had a use in life and in death.

Thinking of forests brought his mind back to the one they were on the edge of and its vastness—and he saw in his friend’s faces that they were thinking the same.

There was a silence, for suddenly the dark and unknown forest, so near at hand, made itself felt as a great brooding presence, full of secret purpose. After a while Legolas spoke again.

“Celeborn warned us not to go far into Fangorn,” he said. “Do you know why, Aragorn? What are the fables of the forest that Boromir had heard?”

“ I have heard many tales in Gondor and elsewhere,” said Aragorn, “ but if it were not for the words of Celeborn I should deem them only fables that Men have made as true knowledge fades. I had thought of asking you what was the truth of the matter. And if an Elf of the wood does not know, how shall a Man answer?”

“ You have journeyed further than I,” said Legolas. "I have heard nothing of this in my own land, save only songs that tell how the Onodrim, that Men call Ents, dwelt there long ago; for Fangorn is old, old even as the Elves would reckon it.”

“ Yes, it is old,” said Aragorn, "as old as the forest by the Barrow-downs, and it is far greater. Elrond says that the two are akin, the last strongholds of the mighty woods of the Elder Days, in which the Firstborn roamed while Men still slept. Yet Fangorn holds some secret of its own. What it is I do not know.”

“ And I do not wish to know,” said Gimli. “ Let nothing that dwells in Fangorn be troubled on my account!”

But Legolas did wish to know. He thought of the strange voices of the trees—he could have listened for an age, trying to hear all they had to say. He did not regret turning away, but—

Never had he been jealous of Aragorn’s wanderings, nameless and without a home, but in this moment the world seemed vast, with so many things he had not seen or spoken to. Again he wondered if he would ever return. If there would be time. He had always had time, and now it seemed to be running short every day.

Aragorn and Gimli were looking at him, waiting for him to draw his lot for the watch, and he realized he had been staring into the trees again.

Gimli drew the first watch. Legolas tried not to sigh; he would have liked to sit a while, listening. Or, if he must sleep, it would be better to do it with Gimli’s comforting warmth next to him.

Still, he laid down, and fell into the sleep of Elves, until Gimli stirred in surprise, and he jumped awake at the movement to see the figure that must be Saruman, and feel the overwhelming and confusing joy of their horses as they ran away.

“ Well, they are gone,” said Aragorn at last. “ We cannot find them or catch them; so that if they do not return of their own will, we must do without. We started on our feet, and we have those still. ”

"Feet!” said Gimli. "But we cannot eat them as well as walk on them.” He threw some fuel on the fire and slumped down beside it.

“ Only a few hours ago you were unwilling to sit on a horse of Rohan,” laughed Legolas. “ You will make a rider yet.”

“ It seems unlikely that I shall have the chance,” said Gimli.

“ If you wish to know what I think,” he began again after a while...

...The night passed slowly. Legolas followed Aragorn, and Gimli followed Legolas, and their watches wore away. But nothing happened. The old man did not appear again, and the horses did not return.

Gimli would never admit it later, but it was only Aragorn’s awkward cough that drew him away from grinning foolishly at Legolas, who grinned back.

He felt suddenly that he ought to apologize to Aragorn, but he did not know what words he could possibly use to do so. It would be admitting something, somehow.

Still he wished that the moment had gone on longer. He would like to see what would happen, sometime, if they were truly alone, as they had not been since Lórien.

Of course the rest of the watches were as such that they did not sleep side by side. Gimli was cold most of the night, even with the fire nearby.

“ I feel the air is stuffy,” said the Dwarf. “This wood is lighter than Mirkwood, but it is musty and shabby.”

“ It is old, very old,” said the Elf. “So old that almost I feel young again, as I have not felt since I journeyed with you children. It is old and full of memory. I could have been happy here, if I had come in days of peace.”

“I dare say you could,” snorted Gimli. “You are a Wood-elf, anyway, though Elves of any kind are strange folk. Yet you comfort me. Where you go, I will go. But keep your bow ready to hand, and I will keep my axe loose in my belt. Not for use on trees,” he added hastily, looking up at the tree under which they stood. “I do not wish to meet that old man at unawares without an argument ready to hand, that is all. Let us go!”

When they awoke the next morning, Aragorn found signs that the hobbits were alive and had gone into Fangorn, and so Gimli was resigned to enter the forest himself. Yet the way Legolas’s face lit up, from within, as though he was being given a gift he had not dared to hope for, warmed him all the way through. He would face a great many dangers, worse than trees, to see that look on his friend’s face.

Where you go, I will go. Where you go, I will go. The words repeated in Legolas’s mind, so that he almost could not listen to the trees as he had been longing to do. Did Gimli mean it? How much did he mean it? For how long?

Gimli was at his side, looking into the trees suspiciously, but Legolas did not begrudge him this. It took great courage to enter a forest such as this, so old and full of sorrow, yet tense like a coiled spring. Legolas had gone into Moria, after all—he knew something of what it took to enter a place so strange and outside of what you were used to.

He breathed in deep, enjoying being in the woods once more. A deep calmness settled on him, as he had not felt since Lothlórien. He still worried for the hobbits, and felt the twinges of grief for lost friends, but the silence of the forest and the ancient feeling with in the trees sharpened his focus. He felt as though he was thinking clearly for the first time in days.

Perhaps it was this that made him speak—perhaps not. Perhaps it was simply walking beside Gimli as they let Aragorn lead. Either way, he said aloud what was in his mind: “You are brave.”

Gimli looked up at him. “What?”

Legolas took a deep breath, suddenly not feeling very brave himself, with those eyes on him, but he carried on. “I know you were...concerned, coming into this forest. I know you fear it. Yet you came.”

Gimli smiled. “Yes, brave indeed. A Dwarf walked into a forest! I hope I may go down in song.” The words were sardonic, but Gimli’s eyes laughed at him, so Legolas laughed himself, feeling his heart lift.

“And rode a horse,” Legolas reminded him. “I hope that earns you an extra verse among your kin.”

“It should!” Gimli laughed. “I would not trust that beast if I did not have you with me!”

Where you go, I will go.

“And yet you have no trouble facing down an army of men,” said Legolas, trying to make his voice light.

“Of course not,” said Gimli. “I had nothing to fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were there with me then, too,” said Gimli.

Legolas fell into stunned silence, for there was nothing he could say to that with Aragorn so near. Had the air of the forest always been so stuffy and hot?

Aragorn found tracks of the hobbits soon afterward, dragging his thoughts away for the moment, but later, they lingered long.

The old man was too quick for him. He sprang to his feet and leaped to the top of a large rock. There he stood, grown suddenly tall, towering above them. His hood and his grey rags were flung away. His white garments shone. He lifted up his staff, and Gimli’s axe leaped from his grasp and fell ringing on the ground. The sword of Aragorn, stiff in his motionless hand, blazed with a sudden fire. Legolas gave a great shout and shot an arrow high into the air: it vanished in a flash of flame.

“Mithrandir!” he cried. “Mithrandir!”

“Well met, I say to you again, Legolas!” said the old man.

They all gazed at him. His hair was white as snow in the sunshine; and gleaming white was his robe; the eyes under his deep brows were bright, piercing as the rays of the sun; power was in his hand. Between wonder, joy, and fear they stood and found no words to say.

If Legolas had been burned all the way to his core, before, from the pain of grief and loss—if he had been too numb even to feel his sadness through song—now the opposite was true. He had known, dimly, that every mortal experienced grief sooner or later; but had anyone in the history of the world ever felt joy such as this? It filled him all the way through, as clear and pure as the light from Gandalf’s staff.

And yet, like his grief, it stopped his tongue, for all he could do was stare. His mind was filled with questions, questions and disbelief, and yet to ask them and banish his fears would be to break a spell that he wanted to continue forever.

But it was not a spell. Gandalf was real, and he was here. He had returned. The darkness had not taken him; they had not failed him. He had returned.

At last Aragorn stirred. “Gandalf!” he said. “Beyond all hope you return to us in our need! What veil was over my sight? Gandalf!” Gimli said nothing, but sank to his knees, shading his eyes.

“Gandalf,” the old man repeated, as if recalling from old memory a long disused word. “Yes, that was the name. I was Gandalf.”

He stepped down from the rock, and picking up his grey cloak wrapped it about him: it seemed as if the sun had been shining, but now was hid in cloud again. “Yes, you may still call me Gandalf,” he said, and the voice was the voice of their old friend and guide. “Get up, my good Gimli! No blame to you, and no harm done to me. Indeed my friends, none of you have any weapon that could hurt me. Be merry! We meet again. At the turn of the tide. The great storm is coming, but the tide has turned.”

He laid his hand on Gimli’s head, and the Dwarf looked up and laughed suddenly. “Gandalf!” he said. “But you are all in white!”

To take an axe to a friend was a grave offense, and yet Gimli was laughing. In fact he laughed so that tears did not flow from his eyes, although in this endeavor he was not quite successful—but if he wiped his face, no one said anything about it.

So many strange things had happened since they set out from Rivendell; why wouldn’t Gandalf be back from the dead? Lothlórien had been a waking dream all by itself. And yet this was even more of one, like something Gimli had wished for so many times that he had willed it into existence, but any moment he would wake up into a cold, dark world, and find that it had all come undone.

Legolas was staring at Gandalf as though he felt the same, although from what Gimli knew, Elves did not dream the same way as mortals; they knew when they were in a dream, and their subconscious did not invent fantasies or nightmares out of wholecloth. That Legolas felt the same was a comfort, at least.

Almost subconsciously, desperate to believe that this was real, Gimli reached out and grabbed Legolas’s hand, and—yes, yes it was flesh and blood, and Legolas gripped back more tightly than he ever would in a dream. Gimli let out a breath, and once again his eyes prickled, though he did not weep.

Gandalf had come back to them.

“To Legolas she sent this word:

Legolas Greenleaf long under tree

In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!

If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,

Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."

Gandalf fell silent and shut his eyes.

“Then she sent me no message?” said Gimli and bent his head.

“Dark are her words,” said Legolas, “and little do they mean to those that receive them.”

“That is no comfort,” said Gimli.

“What then?” said Legolas. “Would you have her speak openly to you of your death?”

“Yes, if she had naught else to say.”

“What is that?” said Gandalf, opening his eyes. “Yes, I think I can guess what her words may mean. Your pardon, Gimli! I was pondering the messages once again. But indeed she sent words to you, and neither dark nor sad.

“‘To Gimli son of Glóin,’ she said, ‘give his Lady’s greeting. Lockbearer, wherever thou goest my thought goes with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right tree!’”

“In happy hour you have returned to us, Gandalf,” cried the Dwarf, capering as he sang loudly in the strange dwarf-tongue. “Come, come!” he shouted, swinging his axe. “Since Gandalf’s head is now sacred, let us find one that it is right to cleave!”

“That will not be far to seek,” said Gandalf, rising from his seat. “Come! We have spent all the time that is allowed to a meeting of parted friends. Now there is need of haste.”

Somewhere in his mind, Legolas was glad for his friend and wondered what words he sang in his secret language. But stronger and more acute was the sense of dread at the Lady Galadriel’s words. He had not asked for such a warning; he did not want it. Unlike Gimli, he would happily go without a message from her if it meant not knowing about a dark future.

Time pressed upon him again, and the sensation was more unwelcome than ever. How much was there left, before the forests became inadequate for him? What else would he suddenly be ready to leave behind, at a simple sound?

How was it possible to suddenly want to leave behind something he had always loved? That had always meant home?

But he did not say what was in his heart, for he would not dampen Gimli’s joy. Moreover, time—as he had recently become aware—was passing. They could not linger. And so he tried as hard as he could to forget the Lady’s words.

“Time presses, so with your leave, my friends, we will ride. We beg you to use all the speed that you can. Hasufel shall bear Aragorn and Arod Legolas. I will set Gimli before me, and by his leave Shadowfax shall bear us both. We will wait now only to drink a little.”

Gimli exchanged a swift glance with Aragorn and also with Legolas, but Gandalf was already mounting Shadowfax and beckoning Gimli on, and the time was indeed running swiftly, and so he found he had no choice.

Indeed Shadowfax was a smoother ride than Arod, but not nearly so enjoyable.

Gimli sighed as they rode, missing feeling his arms around another warm, comforting body—and Gandalf heard him, for he said aloud, “I am sorry. I know riding a horse is not the preferred transportation of the Dwarves. But I hoped to lessen the sting by putting you on Shadowfax.”

Caught, Gimli felt himself flush, and was glad he was sat in front of Gandalf who could not see his face. “It is not that,” he said. “Well, not that alone.”

But he did not elaborate. He could not; not here, with Legolas riding beside them, so close—and still somehow so far away.

“I see,” said Gandalf after a long moment of silence, but he did not sound as though he really did.

Gimli did not speak further. He brooded on the landscape again, wondering what was ahead in this strange and new country.

They rode on through sunset, and slow dusk, and gathering night. When at last they halted and dismounted, even Aragorn was stiff and weary. Gandalf only allowed them a few hours’ rest. Legolas and Gimli slept, and Aragorn lay flat, stretched upon his back; but Gandalf stood, leaning on his staff, gazing into the darkness, east and west. All was silent, and there was no sign or sound of living thing. The night was barred with long clouds, fleeting on a chill wind, when they arose again. Under the cold moon they went on once more, as swift as by the light of day.

Legolas smiled a tired apology at Gimli when they stopped, but Gimli only shrugged back, so he did not think his friend was mad.

“You still are not a horseman, I see,” he said lightly, instead of what he truly wished to say aloud.

Gimli smiled at him. “If you could not turn me into one, I do not think such a thing is possible.”

“Ah, but we have only had one ride together,” said Legolas. “I need more time, if I am to take on such a task!”

“You know I would do it as often as you liked, if it was with you,” Gimli said fondly, apparently unaware that every time he said such a thing, Legolas’s heart pounded in his chest. “But I would beg you not to!”

“Only at need, then,” said Legolas, smiling warmly now. He saw out of the corner of his eye Gandalf giving Aragorn a look he could not interpret, but he could not think of that now. Gimli was nearly asleep on his feet, and still he talked with Legolas as though they were both fresh from a long night’s slumber.

“A fair bargain,” said Gimli. “And kinder words from a Dwarf you will not hear!”

Legolas laughed. “You are drooping,” he said, sitting down at last.

“And you are not?” Gimli retorted, but he sat, and then laid, down next to Legolas. Soon they were drifting off to sleep, side by side at last. They did not have much time—again—but he found he did not mind, with Gimli’s warm and comforting presence so close. On instinct, he put his head on Gimli’s shoulder, and felt him drop off almost immediately.

Overhead was the moon, and stars, that he wished to look at and contemplate on, for now that he did not spend every night half-awake and full of anxiety, he remembered anew that no sky was ever the same, not even after all his years walking the earth. This one seemed at a glance both beautiful and ominous. But as with the trees of Fangorn, he did not have the time to give them the attention they deserved. Moreover, his need for rest was too strong to look at them long.

Legolas could not even imagine how wearying time must be for mortals, if his new sense of it was already so exhausting.

Before he did fall into Elvish sleep, he heard Gandalf say, very quietly (but not quietly enough for his sharp ears to miss it), to Aragorn: “How long?”

“Since Lothlórien,” Aragorn said, equally quiet.

“Not long, then,” said Gandalf.

“Long enough,” said Aragorn. He sounded weary; this made sense, as nothing else in their conversation did. He had been riding long and was tired.

Yet Gandalf, for some reason, chuckled softly. “Give them time. They may last together for many years.”

“Forever, I think, if they ever speak of it to each other,” said Aragorn. “Yet I fear they are both too stubborn.”

Not understanding, and too tired to eavesdrop further on a strange conversation, Legolas dropped off into sleep before he could hear Gandalf’s reply.

After some time he returned. “Follow me!” he said. “Théoden gives you leave to enter; but any weapon that you bear, be it only a staff, you must leave on the threshold. The doorwardens will keep them.”

...

“Whatever its name may be,’ said Háma, “here you shall lay it, if you would not fight alone against all the men in Edoras.”

“Not alone!” said Gimli, fingering the blade of his axe, and looking darkly up at the guard, as if he were a young tree that Gimli had a mind to fell. “Not alone!”

“Come, come!” said Gandalf. “We are all friends here. Or should be; for the laughter of Mordor will be our only reward, if we quarrel. My errand is pressing. Here at least is my sword, goodman Háma. Keep it well. Glamdring it is called, for the Elves made it long ago. Now let me pass. Come, Aragorn!”

...

“Well,” said Gimli, “if it has Andúril to keep it company, my axe may stay here, too, without shame”; and he laid it on the floor. “Now then, if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master.”

The guard still hesitated. “Your staff,” he said to Gandalf. "Forgive me, but that too must be left at the doors.”

“Foolishness!” said Gandalf. “Prudence is one thing, but discourtesy is another. I am old. If I may not lean on my stick as I go, then I will sit out here, until it pleases Théoden to hobble out himself to speak with me.”

Aragorn laughed. “Every man has something too dear to trust to another. But would you part an old man from his support? Come, will you not let us enter?”

“The staff in the hand of a wizard may be more than a prop for age,” said Háma. He looked hard at the ash-staff on which Gandalf leaned. “Yet in doubt a man of worth will trust to his own wisdom. I believe you are friends and folk worthy of honour, who have no evil purpose. You may go in.”

The ride into Rohan was strange. Gimli did not think Legolas minded; he looked around curiously, not seeming to mind the stares they were getting. Gimli thought it likely that he found the whole place a bit quaint, Men thinking themselves ancient when in the mind of Elves they were young indeed.

But Gimli was more used to suspicious looks, and he did not like them at all. The faces peering out at them were pale, only sometimes with dark hair, and they did not seem to know what to make of him and Legolas. He thought he even saw a few people point at Legolas’s eyes; he doubted they had ever seen a single-lid eye, common as they were among both Dwarves and Elves and even hobbits, and Gimli did not want to know what they were saying about it.

It would be unwise to hack anyone’s head off in this country. Gandalf and Aragorn would be very angry if he did so. Gimli only hoped he wouldn’t have to.

And so, by the time they got to the doors of Edoras, Gimli was not in a trusting mood. He did not miss the look Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged when the guard at the entrance said the word “staff”. They did not say anything, but Gimli wondered if there was some plan at work; some reason Gandalf must not be divested of it. They might have spoken of it while he and Legolas were asleep.

Gimli could only guess at why, but his mind worked frantically as they rode to the gates of Meduseld. He did not like the idea of giving up his axe, even briefly. He did not think Aragorn or Legolas would give up their weapons easily, either. Especially if there was some trouble with the King—it seemed imprudent to be unarmed.

Yet if a King demanded it...

Still, there must be some reason the staff was important, to the extent that the gatekeeper had specified that they must leave it.

His mind was working overtime to keep his temper from flaring up, and he knew it, but no one had said anything untoward to Legolas; they seemed more focused on Gandalf. And so his attention remained sharp and focused.

When Aragorn protested leaving Andúril, Gimli could see that his reluctance was real, but Gandalf’s scolding seemed almost theatrical—he was just a shade too agreeable about leaving behind his also-famous sword. And so Gimli found himself almost instinctively playing the part of prickly Dwarf, standing up for Aragorn (it was true that he would level a field of any warriors, no matter how great, who threatened any of his friends—and also true that he did not in the least trust any of these Men).

And when Aragorn laid his sword down at last, Gimli agreed to leave his axe as well, against all the protests of his Dwarvish instincts (uncultured Men indeed, to even think to ask a Dwarf to leave his axe!). He hoped in doing so he could move the conversation along, and distract them from the staff.

It did not entirely work, but Aragorn picked up where he left off seamlessly, and the doorward was convinced. Thus they entered Meduseld; staff and all.

Gimli did exchange a glance at Legolas as they entered; he had seen Legolas lay down a single knife, and he knew his friend carried more than that. But Legolas’s face was blank, impassive.

He was not the only one who did not trust these Men.

“Then it is true, as Éomer reported, that you are in league with the Sorceress of the Golden Wood?” said Wormtongue. “It is not to be wondered at: webs of deceit were ever woven in Dwimordene.”

Gimli strode a pace forward, but felt suddenly the hand of Gandalf clutch him by the shoulder, and he halted, standing stiff as stone.

These Men should count themselves lucky that they had taken away Legolas’s bow. He would’ve laid waste to a field of warriors, no matter how great, for even daring to level an insult so clearly targeted to incite Gimli’s wrath.

He settled for glaring daggers at Wormtongue. If they became literal daggers later, he would not be sorry. He had one hidden up his sleeve. And would have used it, if not for Gandalf.

Mortals!

Now men came bearing raiment of war from the king’s hoard, and they arrayed Aragorn and Legolas in shining mail. Helms too they chose, and round shields: their bosses were overlaid with gold and set with gems, green and red and white. Gandalf took no armour; and Gimli needed no coat of rings, even if one had been found to match his stature, for there was no hauberk in the hoards of Edoras of better make than his short corslet forged beneath the Mountain in the North. But he chose a cap of iron and leather that fitted well upon his round head; and a small shield he also took. It bore the running horse, white upon green, that was the emblem of the House of Eorl.

A Dwarf on his dignity was a fearsome opponent, and Gimli could have made trouble for everyone if he had wished; but once Théoden was returned to his mind, he found himself satisfied as to the courtesy of his Hall in every respect. The suspicious stares melted away entirely; some of the looks towards Legolas had even turned admiring, which Gimli found far more appropriate. Elvish beauty was renowned, after all.

Moreover, the offer of armor was so proper and generous that Gimli found it easy to put all previous slights down to Wormtongue’s poison and accept their kindness.

The armor, however, posed an entirely different problem.

Gimli had never seen Legolas in mail before; it was an odd sight. He did not quite know what to think of it. Yet he smiled when Legolas looked at him with a question in his eyes.

“It suits you well,” Gimli said, though he had not decided if that was true. “Do Wood Elves often wear mail into battle?”

“Yes,” said Legolas. “At need. But I have never been in a battle, so I have never worn it before.”

“No battles?” said Gimli, somewhat surprised. It was his first large one as well, but Legolas was so much older than he.

“Skirmishes only,” Legolas said. He looked somewhat uncomfortable. “And...I was not permitted to fight in the Battle of the Five Armies.”

“Why not?” said Gimli, even more surprised now. The Elves had not originally come in anticipation of a battle, it was true, but still it was a surprise that Thranduil had left such a capable warrior at home. Unless—“Were you left at home to prevent evil forces from overtaking the fortress?”

“That was my stated charge,” Legolas said stiffly. He looked more uncomfortable than ever, as Gimli had not seen him since the early days of knowing him, when they both fought constantly. But he must have seen the taken-aback look on Gimli’s face, for he said, more gently. “I wanted to go. I was denied—and I was furious.”

At this point, Gandalf, who had come with them to look at the armor even though he did not need it, snorted. They both turned to look at him—Gimli at least had forgotten that he and Aragorn were there. But Gandalf did not say anything, only looked at Legolas reprovingly, as though he was chiding him over something Gimli did not know of.

Legolas sighed, and Gimli wondered with some trepidation what secret he was about to be told. “I was left at home because my father did not think I could control myself around Dwarves, if they were still alive, which we did not know at the time. But my father thought it not impossible, and wanted me far away from them. He was worried about what I might do.”

“Oh,” said Gimli. “Is that all?”

Everyone stared at him.

Gimli chuckled. He’d had far worse thoughts about Elves. And if they thought this revelation would shock him— “Legolas, we’ve been standing on either side of an Ages-long feud for all our lives. Did you think I could not guess at what you used to believe? Truly, you should hear some of the things my father and uncles have said about Elves. Or perhaps you should not! We would be at odds with each other all over again, if we were to go over everything we’ve said and done in the past.”

Now Legolas was smiling at him, and as always when that smile was directed at him, he could see or think of nothing beyond the warmth in his friend’s gaze. “You are not wrong. So we agreed the first time we—” He stopped, as if not sure how to phrase something.

“The first time we had a real conversation?” said Gimli. He was aware suddenly of Aragorn watching intently, and then relaxing abruptly when Gimli spoke. Why, he did not know.

“Yes,” said Legolas, sounding relieved. “And my father also could say some things about Dwarves! But I was a fool to listen to him.”

Gimli patted his hand—if they were the same height it would have been his shoulder, but this was what he could reach. “We are beyond that. I would have liked to be at that battle too, yet it was for the best for both of us, that we were not. I am glad to be here with you instead. And was it not you, Gandalf, who said not to bring up the petty grievances of Elves and Dwarves?”

Gandalf, for some reason, looked extremely satisfied. “Oh, yes,” he said. “But some things should not be kept secret.”

“Aragorn was right,” Legolas said. “You still speak in riddles.”

Now Aragorn, who had been watching the exchange silently, laughed. “Riddles to you, maybe,” he said. “I understand perfectly well.”

Legolas looked at Gimli helplessly, but he could only shrug in response. “We are friends with a Ranger and a Wizard,” he told Legolas. “They love to be mysterious. Come, I must choose a shield, and then we can leave them to their secret plots.”

Happily, they found one that was the right size. And perhaps because the conversation had sent his mind to other matters, when his thoughts returned to the question of Legolas and mail, Gimli found that he knew exactly how he felt seeing him arrayed that way.

I should have made it, he thought, and was surprised at the intensity of his sudden desire to see Legolas in real Dwarven mail, made by his own hand.

Some held in readiness the king’s horse, Snowmane, and others held the horses of Aragorn and Legolas. Gimli stood ill at ease, frowning, but Éomer came up to him, leading his horse.

“Hail, Gimli Glóin’s son!” he cried. “I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised. But shall we not put aside our quarrel? At least I will speak no evil again of the Lady of the Wood.”

“I will forget my wrath for a while, Éomer son of Éomund,” said Gimli; “but if ever you chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end.”

“So be it!” said Éomer. ‘But until that time pardon me, and in token of pardon ride with me, I beg. Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark; but Firefoot, my horse, will bear us both, if you will.”

“I thank you indeed,’ said Gimli greatly pleased. “I will gladly go with you, if Legolas, my comrade, may ride beside us.”

“It shall be so,” said Éomer. “Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us!”

It was an honor not to be refused, and his pleasure was not feigned, but Gimli still cast a despairing look at Legolas. Would no one cease to offer him the honor of riding with them? He had only been frowning in anticipation of another long horse ride—he did not wish to change arrangements yet again!

Legolas, however, only laughed at him. “Perhaps Éomer of Rohan shall succeed where I have failed,” he said. “If you can teach a Dwarf to love horses, Éomer, they will sing songs in your honor for years to come!”

“I hope I may go down for more than that,” Éomer said with his own laugh.

“My own feet have always been good enough for me,” Gimli retorted, to more laughter, and in his heart he despaired of his friends ever understanding him truly.

Night closed about them. At last they halted to make their camp. They had ridden for some five hours and were far out upon the western plain, yet more than half their journey lay still before them. In a great circle, under the starry sky and the waxing moon, they now made their bivouac. They lit no fires, for they were uncertain of events; but they set a ring of mounted guards about them, and scouts rode out far ahead, passing like shadows in the folds of the land. The slow night passed without tidings or alarm. At dawn the horns sounded, and within an hour they took the road again.

As they made camp, Legolas was once again treated to the sight of Gimli being helped down from a horse and stretching stiffly, clearly uncomfortable and sore, but still managing a tired smile in Legolas’s direction.

Legolas smiled back, knowing that all the warmth and affection he felt in his heart was shining through, and not caring in the least. “Are you still not a horseman?” he said.

“Not in the least,” Gimli said emphatically. “No offense meant,” he added to Éomer, who only shook his head in amusement, and left them to aid with ordering the setup of the camp.

Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli looked at each other. “Well, we are headed to war,” Gimli said at last, as the other two tended to their horses.

“I hope the hobbits are well,” Legolas said before he could stop himself. He had not meant to dwell on them, but abandoning the hunt had been hard.

“We must trust Gandalf,” Aragorn said. “And hope that our paths will indeed cross again.”

“Of course,” Legolas said. “But trust and hope are not comfort alone.”

“They are not all we have,” said Gimli. When they looked at him, he added: “We have each other. We’ve come this far together; who knows how much further we can go?”

“First, into war,” Legolas repeated, with a wry smile.

“There is no one I would rather fight beside,” said Gimli.

There was a long pause, before Aragorn cleared his throat. “It will be a short night,” he said. “We should rest while we can.”

They took their places to rest and eat where they were told, and Éomer soon joined them. Around them, the other warriors of Rohan made camp, meager as it was. Legolas noticed for the first time that there were women among the soldiers, which was a surprise but also a relief; he had never understood the strange ways of Men who separated their women who were perfectly capable of fighting, but forced other men into battle who were not suited to it. The Men of Dale did things thus, and they always asked strange and rather rude questions about the female Elves who went into battle.

Almost as soon as he thought this, he heard Gimli asking about it.

“They are shieldmaidens,” said Éomer. “In our country, all who are capable must fight. Do your Dwarf women fight?”

“Of course,” said Gimli. “At need.” He did not elaborate. Legolas knew, suddenly and without being able to say quite how, that if he had asked the question, Gimli would have said more. But among this company, he kept the silence of Dwarves.

At the thought, his heart seemed to speed up, and he had to look away from the others. Almost instinctively, his eyes were drawn to the horizon and the sky above, searching for danger even though he knew the guards around them could do their jobs well without his help. Still, since leaving home, he had been asked so many times to use his sharp eyes, that he now found himself constantly on watch. And if he could not speak without revealing himself, he would look to the stars, who would not betray him as his tongue might.

He heard his name, and realized abruptly that they were all looking at him. “Your pardon,” he said. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Did you see something?” said Gimli, for of course he knew at least part of what was on Legolas’s mind.

“No,” said Legolas. He smiled apologetically at Éomer. “And so my poor manners have no excuse.”

“It is no crime to be watchful in these dark days,” said Éomer. “But since all is well, I will ask again, what you think of Rohan, since you and Gimli have not traveled here before.”

Legolas’s mind went blank; he did not know how to answer. He had thought often of Fangorn since arriving, but the forest was on Rohan’s borders, not within Rohan itself—and these plains and rocky mountains were a strange place for a wood-elf. The cities and towns of Men seemed small and fragile to him, not like the ancient cities of the Elves.

He could not say any of this, however, and was nearly frantic for an answer until he remembered with relief the horses. “You are a brave people,” he said, hoping he had not lingered too long over his words. “And never outside of Elves have I met anyone who understands horses so well.” Éomer did not say anything right away, and Legolas’s words continued to tumble out, falling over themselves. “They love you as much as you love them—they are lucky indeed to be beasts of Rohan, and they know it well, and are proud.”

Éomer looked at him in surprise. “You can hear their speech, then? I have heard that Elves could speak to plants and animals, but I did not believe it to be true.”

“In a way,” Legolas said. “We cannot converse as you and I can. But I can understand them, and I can make them understand me as well, though not in their own language.”

“He can talk to stones, too,” said Gimli.

Legolas sighed, half laughing. “As I have told you a thousand times—”

“You do not speak to them, you listen to them and sense their memories,” Gimli said. “I remember.”

Legolas stared, for despite his jest, he had only said so once. Yet Gimli remembered what he said word for word. “Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”

They must have looked at each other too long again, for Éomer sounded somewhat awkward when he said, “Then I suppose the real question is, is there anything the Elves cannot speak to?”

“The stars,” said Legolas immediately, for they were bright overhead and he had been thinking, almost absentmindedly, about the way Gimli’s eyes caught in the light of them. “If they have speech, I do not know it.”

“Forgive him,” Aragorn said to Éomer, a laugh in his voice. “If there is an Elf in this world who would not rather stare at the stars and sing than speak, I have not met them.”

Éomer chuckled softly. “And what of the stars in Rohan?” he said. “Are they different from your own land?”

“They are the same,” said Legolas truthfully. “I suppose we would have to go further south for them to change. Look, there is—I suppose you would call it the Sickle—in your land, just as it is in mine.”

Gimli, seeing where Legolas was pointing, said, “That is the Crown of Durin, to us. You see—without the handle of your Sickle. We saw it reflected in the Mirrormere, even in bright daylight.”

“That is wondrous,” Legolas said. “You did not tell me.”

“We were not speaking then,” said Gimli. His smile was even more beautiful in the light of the stars.

“Would you take me with you now?” Legolas could not help asking—even with Éomer and Aragorn so close.

“Of course,” said Gimli. “If you wished to go, I would take you anywhere.”

“It is the Sickle to hobbits, too, but in Gondor they call that constellation the Bear,” Aragorn said into the silence that followed. “They do the opposite of the Dwarves, and connect it to other adjoining stars. And there, in its smaller, mirror constellation—if you follow its brightest star, you will always find your way North.”

“We use it for that too,” said Éomer. “But here your large Sickle, Bear, or Crown—to us it is the Plough. And over there, across the sky, is the horse to pull it.”

“Those four stars are the Border of the Sun, to us,” said Legolas.

“That is the Anvil,” said Gimli. “If you connect it only to those two stars, instead of all of Éomer’s. And over there, the Hammer, its partner—or just the Axe, depending on who you ask.”

“In Gondor they say that is a pair of fish,” said Aragorn. “Though I would agree with the Dwarves that it looks more like an axe or hammer, in this case.”

“It is not only the Elves, then, that are captured by the stars,” said Éomer. “All of us have stared up at them and made them into shapes in our minds.”

“And found our way by them,” said Aragorn.

“It is also not only the Elves who wish to understand all things,” said Legolas. “And all free people of Middle-Earth find beauty in their own way.”

“So it is,” murmured Éomer.

Gimli’s eyes were shining at him in the starlight.

Gimli stood leaning against the breastwork upon the wall. Legolas sat above on the parapet, fingering his bow, and peering out into the gloom.

“This is more to my liking,” said the dwarf, stamping on the stones. “Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Legolas. “But you are a dwarf, and dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your kin among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them. The Rohirrim have good bowmen after their fashion, but there are too few here, too few.”

“It is dark for archery,” said Gimli. “Indeed it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!”

They had little time to explore the fortress when they arrived, but Gimli wished to see as much of it as possible anyway. He did not want to fight on entirely unfamiliar ground. Of course Legolas came with him, and indulged his talk along the way.

“This is good work,” Gimli said; he couldn’t help himself. “Not as good as Erebor, but we could make it so, in time. Look at the craftsmanship on these stairs! Carved out of the living rock! If you did not know they were there, you would fall down them—they say the Deeping Wall has never been breached, but this alone would claim enemies if it was!”

Legolas smiled bemusedly at him. “Have you ever carved such stairs?”

“Oh, no,” Gimli said. “But we have them, at home. In fact—” he grinned suddenly at Legolas as a memory struck him. “The children of the Mountain would sit on shields and slide down the stairs,” he said, laughing. “I was too old, of course. It would be undignified for me to participate.”

Legolas laughed. “I do not believe that! But that seems dangerous, for children—did they not fall?”

Gimli shrugged. “Dwarf skulls are strong,” he said, in complete truthfulness. But he could not leave it at that. “And Dwarf stair sledding is an ancient tradition, of course.”

“Of course,” said Legolas, catching on at once. “You could not disrespect your ancestors by not doing it!”

“It’s good training for future battles, too,” said Gimli. “In the Battle of Moria, Dáin’s brother Náin came sliding down on a shield at Azog, and knocked him to the ground, thus allowing Dáin himself to behead Azog and get revenge for his brother’s death and that of Thror.”

This was pure fiction—Náin had been slain on the stairs, and it was well known to all Dwarves that Dáin had beheaded Azog, but to Gimli’s knowledge no Dwarf had ever slid down the stairs in the midst of battle. Such a thing would be absurd.

Unless you were an Elf. Legolas had a contemplative look on his face.

“Oh no,” Gimil said. “Whatever you are thinking, no.”

“But,” said Legolas.

“No.”

“This strategy seems flawed...I do not criticize your ancestors, of course,” Legolas added, shooting Gimli a sly look that said exactly how much nonsense he knew his friend was spouting. “But one cannot defend oneself when one is sitting on a shield, hanging on for dear life.”

“I am offended,” said Gimli. “This is an outrage. An Elf insults the traditions of Dwarves—again! We are at war once more.”

It didn’t work. Legolas was not deterred; or fooled. “But if you were standing on the shield...”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” Gimli said. His hands, which had been still all the time they traveled with Aragorn and Gandalf and all the others who had joined them since, made the sign for idiot and then idiot child I am fond of. Legolas’s eyes went to them immediately, though he said nothing about them.

“Your hands would be free,” Legolas pointed out. “You’d be less likely to trip on the stairs.”

“If you fall in battle and split your head open, I will mourn your death, but I will also never cease to mock you, as long as I live,” Gimli threatened. He signed foolish death.

“We could find an empty, less treacherous staircase and try it there first,” said Legolas.

“You are absolutely not allowed to tell Gandalf or Aragorn that you got this idea from me,” said Gimli.

“A fair bargain,” Legolas said, now grinning widely at him. Gimli felt himself give in.

“All right,” he said. “But you had best hope it does not fall on me to clean up Elf blood if this goes poorly.”

“It won’t,” said Legolas. His smile turned sly. “I have very good balance.”

Gimli didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, or why it made his ears heat, but he coughed, glad as usual that he was wearing a helmet, and went to find a spare staircase.

It wasn’t overly difficult; the Hornburg was full of stairs, and most people were in the lower areas of the fortress, with only bowmen at the top, and only outside on the walls. Gimli refused to let him use his newly-borrowed shield, but they did find a spare one, through the very simple method of asking the armorers if they had one a bit more battered that they could borrow for a few moments.

The man in the armory looked confused when they asked, then seemed to remember that they were with Gandalf and Aragorn (and also the King), before shrugging and letting them take what they wanted.

Legolas was right about his balance. He mastered not only the technique of sitting, but invented a way of standing on it, with only a few tries, and no gruesome scenes ensued.

Gimli despaired of him, and said so.

Legolas only grinned, clearly having trouble restraining himself from laughing loudly, which Gimli knew because he must have the same look on his own face. It wouldn’t do to gather all the Men of Rohan to their back staircase, with questions about what was so funny on the eve of battle.

“You should try,” said Legolas. “It is truly not hard!”

“No, thank you,” Gimli said, in as dignified a tone as he could muster. He had climbed up the stairs so he could glare down at Legolas properly, as he had never been able to do before. He felt Legolas deserved it. It also served to prevent him from attempting the absurd stunt again until Gimli was good and ready. “I have already shared far too many Dwarven secrets with you tonight, thank you very much, Master Elf!”

Legolas’s smile turned fond. He climbed up a stair until he was eye level with Gimli, and Gimli found he was not prepared for the sensation. “You are signing again,” he said. “I think you spill secrets against your will, Master Dwarf.”

Gimli was helpless under that gaze. “I do,” he said quietly. It was like a confession. “I told you once that I do not like having secrets from you.”

“You did.” There was something else in Legolas’s eyes now, that Gimli could not entirely read, but if he had to guess, he’d say that his friend was close to making a decision—close to doing something—and he was moving closer, reaching for Gimli, about to do touch him, about to—

There was a shout somewhere far away, and Gimli had not realized how close their faces were to each other until they both jumped away from each other.

They looked at each other, then away, then back.

“We are about to go into battle,” said Legolas.

“Yes,” said Gimli.

“We should get to the walls,” said Legolas.

“Yes,” said Gimli.

They were quiet for a moment, neither of them moving.

“This isn’t over,” said Legolas.

“No,” said Gimli.

They looked at each other for a moment longer, not quite smiling, before, without a word, they turned to climb up the stairs and find their battle stations.

Chapter Text

Gimli stood leaning against the breastwork upon the wall. Legolas sat above on the parapet, fingering his bow, and peering out into the gloom.

“This is more to my liking,” said the dwarf, stamping on the stones. “Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water.”

“I do not doubt it,’ said Legolas. “But you are a dwarf, and dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I shall like it no more by the light of day. But you comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your kin among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them. The Rohirrim have good bowmen after their fashion, but there are too few here, too few.”

“It is dark for archery,” said Gimli. “Indeed it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could. Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!”

...

A slow time passed. Far down in the valley scattered fires still burned. The hosts of Isengard were advancing in silence now. Their torches could be seen winding up the coomb in many lines.

Up on the wall, Legolas felt the slow creep of panic begin to set in. He was surrounded by tall, forbidding mountains, walled into the rock defended only by a too-small group of men and women. And so pale, too! Their skin gleamed in the dark; they would be easy targets, almost as easy as the Orcs, who were nearly transluscent themselves and had to wear dark, heavy armor to disguise themselves. And these Orcs were closing in on them. Gimli was by his side, but—

What had he done? Or almost done? What did Gimli think? It seemed like he wished to continue the—conversation—but what would he say? What was he thinking? What did he want from Legolas—or not want?

Time pressed on him again, moving both too slow and too fast all at once, until Gimli spoke, and then it moved at exactly the right pace.

Legolas took a breath. When silence fell, and all there was to do was watch the Orcs come closer and closer, and the future faded away in the deep darkness of the present, he was the one to speak.

“The captain of my company in Mirkwood could have hit them from here,” he said into the silence.

Gimli stirred. “And you could not?”

Legolas shrugged. “Maybe. But it would be a waste of arrows,” he added, wisely. “These Men will need a good bowman, later.”

“They will,” said Gimli, and then he furrowed his brow, and looked at Legolas. “You said ‘could have’,” he said.

“Ah,” said Legolas. “You miss nothing, my friend.”

Gimli said nothing, only waited.

“She perished,” said Legolas. “I got her killed, when the Orcs ambushed us and Gollum escaped.”

“I see,” said Gimli. He did not waste words on apologies; he seemed to know Legolas did not need them. In the dark, with danger all around them, Legolas was grateful. “What was her name?”

“Valadhiel,” said Legolas. “She was mighty. She would not have placed the blame on me, and perhaps she would have been right. Yet I grieve the loss.”

“She would be right,” Gimli said. “And she did her job. It is what we all risk.”

“That is what she would say,” said Legolas. Her, and the rest of the good soldiers—good people—he had lost. And yet he was still sorry.

He thought he would not miss home; and at first, he had not. It had been a relief to leave his guilt and mistakes in the forest, and travel to new lands with a fresh start, where people did not see him as his father’s son, but only himself. Moreover, the company of Gimli and—well, mostly Gimli—was as good, if not better, than any Elf. Sometimes he felt terribly, terribly old, as he never had before. Sometimes the Men around him made him feel very strange and Elvish and different, even when they didn’t mean to.

But mostly, he did not mind. Mostly, it was a relief to see the world with fresh eyes. He had not even considered what his father might say about any of his actions in many weeks. It was a weight he’d never known he was carrying.

In times like this, however, he wished he had his kin at his back. He wished for more archers, whose strengths he knew and could rely on. He wished they could help these brave young people and their new fortress. He wished he was not going to see so many of them die. And he wished, yes, that his mistakes did not still linger in his mind even now, even when he knew he was not wholly at fault.

He could not save everyone; he could not protect all these soldiers. He could only fight as hard as he could beside them, and hope that it would be enough.

This did not comfort him.

Only Gimli brought Legolas comfort, now, even as nervous as he currently was around him.

He hoped that, at the end, Gimli would still—

He could not think like that.

“So your women fight, too,” said Gimli after a time. “Just as in Lothlórien—and some of the women in Rohan, it seems.”

Nearby, they saw one of the Men of Rohan shoot them a surprised look, and Legolas was reminded abruptly that they were not alone. He would have said something to the man, to ask more about their shieldmaidens, or even speak to one of them, but the man quickly returned his gaze to the advancing Orc army and seemed content to ignore—or pretend to ignore—the conversation of the two strangers.

“Yes,” said Legolas. “So does everyone. Do they not, among Dwarves?”

Gimli laughed at some unseen joke. “Sometimes,” he said. “Everyone, male and otherwise, is typically referred to as a man except among other Dwarves, however.”

“What?” said Legolas. This revelation took his mind away from the darkening night entirely—he found himself once more engrossed in learning more about the customs of Dwarves. And now the nearby soldiers were definitely listening, he noticed. One woman nearby seemed especially curious.

“Well, Men—Men who are not from Rohan, anyway—seem to think that anyone who fights and has a beard is male,” said Gimli. “And since anyone referred to as ‘he’ gets more respect among them...well, the Dwarrodams never saw fit to correct them. Most Dwarves who think of themselves as female only refer to themselves as such around other Dwarves, or close friends. Or Elves, of course.”

“Why Elves?” said Legolas.

“Oh, Elves are rude to us regardless,” said Gimli, though he smiled to soften the blow of his words. “They like to force them to show some respect.”

Legolas grinned. “Well, there is no reason to be inaccurate when insulting someone,” he said solemnly.

“Indeed,” laughed Gimli. “But it is also true that Elves don’t care about the same things Men do. Like you, we do not have the illusions that Men have, that any one of us is less capable of fighting due to something like gender. Even in private, a Dwarf is a Dwarf. Especially since courtship is rare among Dwarves.”

“Yet not unheard of,” said Legolas instantly, almost desperately. “Just as among Elves.”

“Not at all,” said Gimli—did he say it quickly? “And since it is rare, every courtship is by its nature unusual.”

Legolas let out a long, slow breath. “How unusual?” he said, and with a touch of rash bravery, added, “And how many took place while Orcs were advancing?”

Gimli laughed. “I think you might be surprised,” he said. “Yet I think it unlikely anything happened on the walls of a fortress, surrounded by other soldiers!”

Legolas looked around, and saw that their companions were now staring ahead woodenly. He felt a swift pang of guilt, before he noticed Gimli’s wry smile, and returned it, and noticed nothing else. “And anyway, they are getting closer.”

“They are indeed,” said Gimli, sighing. “My axe is nearly jumping in my hands.”

“I could probably hit them from here now,” said Legolas. He wasn’t sure this was true; he was a very good shot but even he could not yet see the pale, wide eyes of the Orcs through their helmets, and he did not want to waste arrows. But he was restless too, full of energy that needed to go somewhere before he burst. “I would kill twenty Orcs before you killed one.”

“Is that so?” said Gimli. “Yet I would kill more, once you ran out of arrows.”

“You forget my knife,” said Legolas. “I can be swift and deadly!” He was much deadlier when Gimli fought with him, but there was no need to bring that up now, when he was saying anything he could think of to stop the blood from rushing to his face.

“We will soon have a chance to find out for sure,” said Gimli. “Since we have been speculating for so long. Let us make a wager.”

“Yes? And what does the winner, who kills the most Orcs, get?”

Gimli seemed to swallow down whatever leapt into his mind first, and Legolas cursed the caution of Dwarves; he wished to know what Gimli’s first thought was.

“I do not know,” Gimli said after a time. It seemed to Legolas, who now could not help keeping a sharp eye on the people around them, that a soldier of Rohan nearby relaxed slightly, though one of the others looked slightly disappointed. Legolas thought that he knew the feeling. “I do know that I will never hear the end of it if you win, so perhaps that is winnings enough.”

Legolas laughed. “Very well, then. Whoever wins shall be allowed to claim superiority forever!”

“A fair bargain,” said Gimli, smiling, and thus they shook hands on it, and if Legolas lingered long on Gimli’s hand, savoring the touch, Gimli did not say anything of it.

The postern was closed again, the iron door was barred and piled inside with stones. When all were safe within, Éomer turned: “I thank you, Gimli son of Glóin!” he said. “I did not know that you were with us in the sortie. But oft the unbidden guest proves the best company. How came you there?”

“I followed you to shake off sleep,” said Gimli; “but I looked on the hillmen and they seemed over large for me, so I sat beside a stone to see your sword-play.’

“I shall not find it easy to repay you,” said Éomer.

“There may be many a chance ere the night is over,” laughed the Dwarf. “But I am content. Till now I have hewn naught but wood since I left Moria.”

Gimli was finding that in tales of great battles, all those that did the telling had left out great times of long and terrible waiting. And yet even in the darkness, in a cloud of anxiety and fear, he found himself sleepy—sleepy, on the edge of battle! No matter how hard he had ridden, he should be wide awake!

But Legolas was a solid, comforting presence, and the Orcs were still only in arrow-range, far out of reach of his axe. This normally would not matter; he would still be ready to fight, ready to cleave them in twain as soon as they came near him. But with Legolas there, he was content to wait until they got nearer. Indeed, he was content to sleep until someone woke up him to wade into the fray.

He shook his head sharply, to ward off sleep, but it did not work. He was now comfortable, even in the watchful, tense silence, but he found the words to break it: “Legolas, I must take a walk, or I shall fall asleep on my feet.”

There was a smile in Legolas’s voice when he answered. “Take care not to fall asleep as you walk, and fall down the stairs!”

“Ha!” said Gimli. “In a stone fortress such as this? Impossible!”

“So you say,” laughed Legolas, and Gimli grumbled and waved him off, but he was smiling under his beard as he walked away, and he knew that Legolas knew it.

Gimli did not lie to Legolas; a part of him had relaxed when they arrived in this country, a part he had not realized had been so tense. He had missed the mountains and good, strong, rock and stone. There was something in the air that awakened senses he did not know had been dormant; a wish to dig down deep and discover what was hiding in these mountains, and what he could make of them.

He had longed to leave the Lonely Mountain and find his own path, but it was hard for a Dwarf to leave his kin, and he thought of them often. What they might think of him telling so much to an Elf (though he did not care—let them say whatever they liked, Gimli would face them all down), what wisdom they might have as the days grew dark. Yet he knew that mostly what they would say, was that he had made a promise to see his quest through to the end, wherever it took him, and that he must do so. And so no thought of returning ever entered Gimli’s mind.

But sometimes...sometimes, he wished they were there with them. He could use them, now. An army of Dwarves in a fortress like this would hold it for an Age, no matter how fearsome the Orcs that attacked it. They would break on it like water, and the Dwarves would still be there.

And if they had Elvish archers, too, as Legolas had wished—!

Gimli shook himself. There was no use thinking like this. The walk and the chill in the air were doing their work to wake him up, as were the anxious faces of the soldiers around him. Once again his axe felt restless, and he longed to hew Orc necks.

The sounds of battle were nearby, so he went towards them; an axe-wielder was no use on a wall, when the enemy was below it. He was just in time to help Aragorn and Éomer, but then they had to retreat behind the door and bar it, and thus Gimli too was barred from further battle. Still it was a good beginning.

One, thought Legolas, while Gimli was gone and a wave of Orcs attacked. Two. Three.

He thought of nothing else. There were soldiers around him, perhaps. If one of them had been Gimli, he would have thought of—

He did not think.

Seven? Seven. Eight. Nine.

“Two!” said Gimli, patting his axe. He had returned to his place on the wall.

“Two?” said Legolas. “I have done better, though now I must grope for spent arrows; all mine are gone. Yet I make my tale twenty at the least. But that is only a few leaves in a forest.”

“At the least,” as though he had not lost track only once, while worrying about Gimli. Yet here Gimli was, and Legolas had to turn away to look diligently for arrows so that his friend did not see the anxiety on his face.

He saw one of the shieldmaidens of Rohan, who had been listening to them earlier, now listening again, and she did not seem to expect him to turn away so quickly, for she looked embarrassed to have been caught. He gave her an awkward nod, not sure what to say, but happily Gimli came to his rescue, bowing to her politely.

“Gimli, at your service,” he said. “And this is my friend, Legolas, of the Woodland Realm. Are you one of the shieldmaidens we have heard of?”

“Cwenhild,” she said. Legolas saw that she was tall and broad-shouldered, pale as were so many of the people in this land, and her eyes in the darkness were also pale blue. Her hair under her helmet was a light red, not nearly so vibrant as Gimli’s, but nearly as curly. “Yes. I am sorry, I did not mean to eavesdrop.”

Gimli smiled at her. “I would hardly call it eavesdropping, any more than I would say this wall affords private conversation. I daresay we should apologize to you, while we wait for the next wave and recover our manners.”

She actually laughed, a clear laugh, and Legolas found himself warming up to her. “Do not apologize! Rarely has anything taken my mind off a battle so thoroughly!”

“Have you seen many battles, then?” said Legolas curiously.

“A few,” she said. “And many skirmishes. Ours is a land at war.”

“As is mine,” said Legolas. “But not like this.”

Cwenhild bowed her head in acknowledgment. “You are an excellent shot. The people of your land must be warriors indeed.”

“Hmph,” said Gimli, but he winked at Legolas.

“So are you,” said Legolas graciously, or he hoped it was gracious, as he mostly felt awkward, and his cheeks were burning from Gimli’s wink. He was all limbs, suddenly, as an Elf should never be, and he did not know how to talk to a stranger with Gimli so close.

At least he was not thinking of the advancing army of Orcs.

“Are there many archers among the shieldmaidens?” Legolas managed, after a moment.

“Some,” Cwenhild said. “We often have specialties, for we are soldiers just as the Riders are, and each has her own strength.”

Legolas and Gimli both nodded, and she smiled at them. “You do not seem surprised, as the men of Gondor often are,” she said. “But then, I heard you say you have women as warriors in your lands.”

“Of course,” said Legolas and Gimli together, and Legolas looked at him before continuing. “Why should they not be, if they want to fight and are strong enough to do so?”

“So one would think,” said Cwenhild dryly. She was quiet for a moment, watching the line of torches from the advancing Orcs. “Yet there are some who think we are too precious, and should be saved only for the most dire of battles. That our place is in the home unless all else fails.”

“I do not see why you cannot decide that for yourselves,” Gimli said. “And what good is one last brave stand, if all else is burned and gone?”

“Yes,” said Cwenhild. “You say what many women also believe. Yet there has been much poison whispered into the ears of men of late, and dreamed up in their minds.”

“Too much,” said Legolas. “Thus the enemy sows dissent among those who should be allies.”

Cwenhild saw the meaningful look he exchanged with Gimli (though Legolas hoped she did not see how Gimli’s gaze burned and scorched him from head to toe), for she said: “There is a story there, I can see it.”

“Our people are ancient enemies,” said Gimli. “We both fell victim to the lies we’d heard about each other—but as soon as we were ready to un-hear them, we were fast friends.”

Legolas did not see any reason to pretend he wasn’t smiling foolishly at Gimli, so he didn’t try. He would never tire of hearing or telling the story, even so abbreviated.

Cwenhild smiled at them both. “I see,” she said. “My wife, Aldwyn, and I had a misunderstanding when we met, as well,” she added.

Legolas wondered if his previous assumption that “maiden” meant “unmarried” was wrong, but it felt strange to ask. Perhaps it was simply part of the title, not meant to be taken literally. “You did?” he said instead, and a part of him waited for Gimli to protest that they were not the same—but the protest never came. Had his heart been beating this fast during their whole conversation, or had it just started?

“Oh, yes,” said Cwenhild. “She thought I was a horse thief.”

“A horse thief!” said Gimli. “That must be a high crime, in this land!”

“Punishable by death,” Cwenhild said. “It was lucky for me I was only there to steal cheese,” she added.

Gimli laughed, and Legolas joined him. “Now you are the one who must tell us more,” Gimli said.

“Unfortunately for you, they are drawing closer,” said Cwenhild, and this was true, though her eyes were twinkling at them. “I will have to do so when this is over.”

“We will hold you to that,” Gimli promised, but Legolas had already stopped listening. He had a real distraction at last—he could not look at Gimli any longer, and pretend not to—not to want—

He focused on the advancing Orcs. They were close enough now that he could see even the strange blotchy burns on their pale skin through the gaps in their armor; gaps where he must aim.

Gimli was at his side, and he could not say what he thought, or do what he wished, but he could—he could do something about this army, and there would be blood tonight.

Down from the wall leapt Gimli with a fierce cry that echoed in the cliffs. “Khazâd! Khazâd!” He soon had work enough.

“Ai-oi!” he shouted. “The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both. Khazâd ai-mênu!”

Legolas’s heart leapt at the Dwarvish words, almost into his throat. A fire burned therein, and his bow sang; there was indeed work enough for them both.

Twenty-one.

...

Twenty-two.

Gimli was gone from him again, but Legolas knew he would return.

...

Twenty-three.

“Twenty-one!” cried Gimli. He hewed a two-handed stroke and laid the last Orc before his feet. “Now my count passes Master Legolas again.”

“We must stop this rat-hole,” said Gamling. “Dwarves are said to be cunning folk with stone. Lend us your aid, master!”

“We do not shape stone with battle-axes, nor with our finger-nails,” said Gimli. “But I will help as I may.”

They gathered such small boulders and broken stones as they could find to hand, and under Gimli’s direction the Westfold-men blocked up the inner end of the culvert, until only a narrow outlet remained. Then the Deeping-stream, swollen by the rain, churned and fretted in its choked path, and spread slowly in cold pools from cliff to cliff.

“It will be drier above,” said Gimli. “Come, Gamling, let us see how things go on the wall!”

He climbed up and found Legolas beside Aragorn and Éomer. The elf was whetting his long knife. There was for a while a lull in the assault, since the attempt to break in through the culvert had been foiled.

“Twenty-one!” said Gimli.

“Good!” said Legolas. “But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here.”

Gimli at first thought the request was absurd; he did not know what these men expected to do, unless they thought Dwarves had the power to magically make stones fly into the air and form solid rock walls. But when he saw how they proposed to lay the rocks over each other, without taking thought to their shape and size and location on the ground, he nearly despaired. They truly did need his help.

Given time, he could have built a wall that would hold against even blast-fire without mortar. That was not possible now, but he had many workers who took instruction well, and they soon built a dry stone wall that he would not be ashamed of before his ancestors.

More importantly, they finished it quickly, so he could return to Legolas and compare counts. Of course Legolas was ahead! But he was catching up.

The shieldmaiden, Cwenhild, was still alive, and grinning at him knowingly. Gimli nodded to her, vaguely jealous that she had seen Legolas’s knife work and he had not. But then, he reminded himself sternly, all of them on the wall had likely been doing their own fighting.

But the lull in battle did not last long enough for him to demand more of her cheese stealing story—he did not have time to exchange more words with Legolas, or assert that he would soon catch up to him and win their gamble after all, at the last minute when Legolas least expected it. Just as Aragorn and Éomer were discussing the coming of the dawn, battle broke upon them once more, and he was caught up in it, hewing down Orcs.

For a long time, he did not know where he was, what time it was, who he was with, or how the battle was going. In the press and the heat and the pain, all he could remember to do was count. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

His axe swung and swung, and did not stop.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

Aragorn turned and sped up the stair; but as he ran he stumbled in his weariness. At once his enemies leapt forward. Up came the Orcs, yelling, with their long arms stretched out to seize him. The foremost fell with Legolas’ last arrow in his throat, but the rest sprang over him. Then a great boulder, cast from the outer wall above, crashed down upon the stair, and hurled them back into the Deep. Aragorn gained the door, and swiftly it clanged to behind him.

“Things go ill, my friends,” [Aragorn] said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm.

“Ill enough,” said Legolas, “but not yet hopeless, while we have you with us. Where is Gimli?”

“I do not know,” said Aragorn. “I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the wall, but the enemy swept us apart.”

“Alas! That is evil news,” said Legolas.

“He is stout and strong,” said Aragorn. “Let us hope that he will escape back to the caves. There he would be safe for a while. Safer than we. Such a refuge would be to the liking of a dwarf.’

“That must be my hope,” said Legolas. “But I wish that he had come this way. I desired to tell Master Gimli that my tale is now thirty-nine.”

“If he wins back to the caves, he will pass your count again,” laughed Aragorn. “Never did I see an axe so wielded.”

“I must go and seek some arrows,” said Legolas. “Would that this night would end, and I could have better light for shooting.”

Legolas felt his focus narrow again. Twenty-five, he thought. Twenty-six.

...

Twenty-nine. Thirty.

...

Thirty-five. Thirty-six.

...

Thirty-seven.

...

Thirty-eight.

He pulled his bow back again, and reached, but there were no arrows—he had killed an Orc that was making for Aragorn—the Orcs had fallen into the Deep and there were no more of them to shoot—Aragorn was speaking.

Where was Gimli?

Aragorn did not put his mind at ease. There was nothing to do now but look for arrows and worry. The night was dark and the sounds of battle were now in his ears, where before he had heard nothing.

If he had a chance to use his new technique of sliding down a staircase on a shield while shooting arrows, Gimli would not be there to see it.

Thirty-five, thought Gimli. The crush was becoming less tight, and he found that he was pushing towards a goal: the back of the fortress, where he could see what might be a refuge and a safer area. Thirty-seven, he thought, and hoped Legolas—

He could not think of Legolas.

Something caught him on the head, nearly taking his helmet off, but he swung on instinct, killing whatever had gotten him. Thirty-eight.

He kept swinging.

Thirty-nine. Forty.

He was almost to what he could see now was a tunnel—a cave? Something was wet on his head—what was it? Forty-one.

Caves! Even the possibility was so welcome that he swung hard at the next Orc, and his axe bounced—he ducked the Orc’s swing on instinct, and swung again, killing the Orc. No more Orcs advanced on him, and so he stumbled forward, and realized that he had made his way all the way across the Deeping Wall, into the safety of tunnels, but he did not know where they led.

Gimli looked down at his axe—it was notched. He looked at the Orc he had just felled, and saw its iron collar; no wonder his axe had bounced. Dimly, he was relieved he had killed it at all.

He noticed for the first time that the Orcs around him were of the type with raw, red, burned skin, and wide, gaping eyes, not black as the ones he had seen before, but pale blue—some kind of disturbing hybrid. He watched as one of them blinked for the last time, a clear film closing over its eye before the lid itself closed, and shuddered. He wondered briefly that the people of Rohan had at first stared so suspiciously at him and Legolas, when their true enemies were white and pale.

The Orc was oozing black blood from its head.

This reminded Gimli that his head hurt, so he took his helmet off and touched his forehead, and realized for the first time that he was bleeding. Oh, he thought.

He looked around. There was no one to be found; he must fend for himself. He must not panic. The skulls of Dwarves were hard, and their helmets harder.

He must wrap his head as soon as possible, to stop the bleeding.

All he had that he could use was his undershirt, and that was under layers of mail. As though wading through mud, or taking weary steps on an endless plain, Gimli’s brain slowly worked through the process of what he must do. He must find somewhere sheltered. He must remove his chainmail. He must tear a strip of his shirt.

His helmet was shiny. He must find somewhere where he could prop it up so he could use it to see where to apply the cloth. He must do it carefully, and not waste fabric.

Then he must find help, for his rudimentary bandage would not be enough.

He was in a tunnel, with no way to see what was behind him. Gimli did not think there were Orcs before him, but still he could not stop here. He must stumble forward, and hope there were caves at the end. He must then stop there to apply a bandage. He had materials to make a fire, and light, long enough to do so.

He must move forward.

Gimli put a hand to the rock, more out of the need for comfort than to see. It was not so dark that a Dwarf could not find his way. He could tell by touch and sight that the rock was limestone, perhaps some shale, and the Dwarvish word sprung to mind, though even now he would not let it fully form, here so close to so many Men, even out of sight. Yet he did not think there was a word in the Common Tongue, for how could he explain “it is limestone, but contains some of a substance which is like clay, a fine grain, and thus appears in thin recesses” in one word?

He thought these things mostly to distract himself, for his head was throbbing, he kept wiping away blood, and he did not know where he was. To think about rock was easier than to think about what he could not control.

And then the tunnel opened up to a cave, and he forgot all about it.

Before him was a cave—a cave! It was too small of a word for what he saw! Stalactites and stalagmites intertwined combining in formations all around him. Above him were such shapes and he had never seen, and below them was a still waterfall of—of water-stone, it was the only translation he could allow himself to think, pouring over the hard rock underneath it.

There were patterns in the rock too, patterns and colors and stripes, all glinting in the faint light—

Light.

Gimli registered with a jolt that there was light, coming from far away but bright enough for him to see.

Light meant people. They were nearby, he thought, but he could not stumble upon them disoriented and bleeding from the head.

He quickly found an outcropping of rock, plain shale, that he could use to prop up his helmet and bandage his head. He did it quickly, hardly daring to tear his eyes away from the cave. He was sure it would disappear if he looked away.

But it did not. It was still there when he finished applying his hasty bandage. His fingers were sticky with blood, and he had no way to clean them other than to wipe them messily off on the shale. He had tried not to touch the wound too much, but he needed real attention soon.

And yet, the cave was still ahead of him, still unexplored.

In a moment, a pang he had not realized was there, an invisible injury, vanished. He was glad, fiercely glad, that he had come on this journey, even with all of its darkness and danger. If he had stayed at home, if he had not fought hard for a country that was not his, if he had not been restless and ready for battle—he would not be here now.

He had lost so much; Balin was dead, and he was so far away from his family, their sturdiness and their wisdom. But there was nothing he would not trade for what he had gained.

The weight of this struck Gimli all at once, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. The world was so wide. How could he shut himself in the mountain now, knowing what beauty lurked in the deep caves and bright forests outside of his home?

It would be a long time before he had to even consider the thought, but for the first time he chafed at it. He stood unmoving, unable to do anything, least of all make a decision, when more light glinted off of a stalagmite and he realized, just before a voice rang out, that someone was nearby.

He turned, feeling dazed, and saw a woman with dark hair coming towards him. “Hello!” she said. “I thought I heard someone here. Come with me, you are hurt, and that bandage won’t hold for long.”

Tales of him and Legolas must have spread through the Rohirrim, for she did not ask what a Dwarf was doing there. Yet even that was a dim thought, eclipsed by the only thing he could truly focus on.

“The caves,” said Gimli.

“Yes,” said the woman. “The Healer’s caves are a bit further back, but not too far. You should be able to make it, if that’s your only injury.”

“No,” said Gimli. “I mean, yes. I mean, forgive me—Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service.” He bowed, and it was a bit perfunctory as he tried to get his bearings, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She bowed her head politely, as though not sure how to respond, but this no longer surprised or offended Gimli. He was so far from home—yet so, so glad to be here, despite everything. “I am Aldwyn,” she said.

The name brought Gimli back into the present. “I have heard that name recently,” he said. “From a shieldmaiden archer, on the wall, named Cwenhild. Her wife is named Aldwyn.” Then he shook his head, realizing what he had just said. “My apologies, if it is a common name in your land—it is just, it is the first time I had heard it, so I remembered it. Please forgive me if I spoke rudely.”

“No,” said Aldwyn in a strange voice. “No, that is my wife’s name, and she is an archer, fighting tonight. Was she broad-shouldered, with red hair and a clear laugh?”

“She is,” said Gimli. “She said she met you while she was stealing cheese.”

“That was her,” said Aldwyn. Her gaze was intense, piercing, but Gimli did not need to wonder why. “And she is alive?”

“She was when I last saw her,” said Gimli. “I was on the wall, fighting beside my—my friend, Legolas, who is also an archer. But I was pulled away in the press. I do not know how the battle stands now.”

Aldwyn took a deep breath, and when she was done her face was calm and pleasant again. “I see,” she said. “Well, you must come with me, Gimli son of Glóin. We can wait for them together.”

“But these caves,” said Gimli, though she had already turned and he was following her, for he knew he must. “I have never seen their like. I have seen great caverns, mines, and halls, but I have never seen a cave such as that. Please, what are they called?”

“The Glittering Caves?” said Aldwyn. “Yes, they are beautiful.” She was leading him deeper into them, and he wondered why anyone would set up healer’s beds in such a beautiful place. “You wish to see more of them?”

“I do,” said Gimli. “Will you show me, when I am properly bandaged?” It was a politeness; he was a son of Durin, and could go alone and not get lost, but he would not do so in a country that was not his own without permission, especially in these times.

“When the battle is done,” said Aldwyn, laughing. “I will give you a tour, or find someone more knowledgeable who can. I am afraid we use many of these caverns for storage of goods—but do not be alarmed!” she added, when she saw the shocked look on his face. “We do not damage them! We simply need the space, and of course we cannot house anyone here. And the more beautiful ones, further back, are left untouched.”

Gimli shook his head, aghast at the ways of Men. “No, I must apologize,” he said, with some effort. It is not for me to dictate how you use the resources of your own land.”

Aldwyn gave him a look that said she did not believe for a moment that a Dwarf would not give commands to Men on how to use caves, and she was right, but she did not press the point. “Still I may not be able to take you myself. I am afraid I am not an expert, and I will be busy for a long time yet.”

Gimli smiled. “I need only a guide. I have only seen a glimpse, but I think I can say that they speak for themselves. But forgive me—I would talk about nothing but stones for hours, if I had a polite listener. Tell me of yourself, instead; are you a Healer?”

“At need,” said Aldwyn. “I’m afraid I know more about horses than people. But that is not uncommon, in our land, and every hand that can clean a wound and tie a bandage is needed now.”

“Of course,” said Gimli as they walked into a more open area, with beds set up clearly for the caring of wounds. There were beautiful patterns in the walls in this room as well, but nothing rose from the floor, and the stalactites in the ceiling were short. She was right that the equipment of the Healers did not damage or interfere with the caves. Gimli breathed a sigh of relief, reminding himself that these people were not Orcs, wreaking destruction everywhere they went. They appreciated beauty and respected it, even if they felt they must use the space it was in. “I probably did a poor job,” he said, sitting where she motioned. “I was distracted by the wonders of your land, and only wished to stop the bleeding.”

“It is well enough,” she said, examining it. “Men have done worse. I would not always remove this, but it seems the bleeding has stopped, and I worry that you were not able to clean it first.”

“Yes,” said Gimli. “I did not have the means.”

“Then I will do a better job, and see how badly you have hurt yourself.”

“How badly an Orc hurt me,” Gimli corrected with a smile. “And I gave him worse, I assure you, or I would not be sitting here.”

“Yes,” said Aldwyn, but did not say more. According to her word, she bathed the wound and re-bandaged it with clean linen, skillfully and swiftly.

“Well, Gimli,” she said when she was done, “it seems you will recover quickly, for the gash is not deep. Well-made are the helmets of Dwarves!”

“And hard are our skulls,” said Gimli. “As I am constantly reminding Legolas.”

“Or does he remind you?” Aldwyn returned, smiling.

Gimli laughed. “You have the measure of us, as did Cwenhild. It is both, of course!”

Their laughter was short, and faded quickly, for their thoughts turned together to the wall, and the tide of battle.

Gimli thought briefly of asking if he could return to the fight, but one look at Aldwyn’s face stopped that idea abruptly.

Then a voice interrupted his thoughts, calling his name—he turned, and recognized Gamling, and when fear rose in his throat at seeing him in a Healer’s bed, Gamling raised a hand, smiling. “Do not be afraid—I am not badly hurt! A small wound, and it is not poisoned.”

“It is the same for me,” said Gimli, with relief. “I am glad we were both so lucky. But you owe me a debt—for you did not tell me that your fortress held a treasure within it!” He meant it as a jest, though of course Gamling would not know that there were times when, among strangers, a Dwarf holding a debt was serious indeed. Indeed, in the Blue Mountains, Gimli would have recorded down that he now owed Aldwyn a service, and paid it dutifully. But he had not had cause to think like that for many months, and he was learning that most Men gave freely of their talents among friends, as Dwarves did. The world was different when you were not counted as greedy before you spoke. And though he’d been wary at first in this land, these two people of Rohan, at least, were open and kind to him, with no suspicions evident in their faces or words.

Gamling looked at Aldwyn, confused, and she smiled. “Gimli saw one of the other Glittering Caves of Aglarond before I found him, and was taken by its beauty. He wishes to see more, though I did not know when he asked that he would continue to ask each person he met afterward.”

“You underestimate the hold such a treasure has on my people,” said Gimli gravely. “And I find you using them for storage! Aldwyn has promised me a tour—will you come, too?”

Gamling laughed. “I will, if the Healers will set me free! I have kept watch in this fortress for so long, it would be an honor to show you the beautiful parts of it.”

They were not speaking of the thing they were all thinking of, for there was nothing to say. None of them knew how the battle was going, or how their friends fared. Conversation now flattened once more, for words were empty while they waited, suspended in time.

“The end will not be long,” said the king. “But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap. Snowmane and Hasufel and the horses of my guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound Helm’s horn, and I will ride forth. Will you ride with me then, son of Arathorn? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song – if any be left to sing of us hereafter.”

“I will ride with you,” said Aragorn.

Taking his leave, he returned to the walls, and passed round all their circuit, enheartening the men, and lending aid wherever the assault was hot. Legolas went with him. Blasts of fire leaped up from below shaking the stones. Grappling-hooks were hurled, and ladders raised. Again and again the Orcs gained the summit of the outer wall, and again the defenders cast them down.

Legolas was out of arrows.

He had indeed slid down the stairs on a shield. Men and Orcs had gaped at him, and one Orc had died for its trouble. The others had fallen, and been cut down by Rohirrim.

It did not bring him joy. All he had thought was, thirty-nine.

He could not do as much damage with a knife. He could only maim and cut, and hold them back. Sometimes a soldier of Rohan came behind him with a sword and did further damage, or ended the life of his attacker. Andúril moved in a blur, cutting down enemies before they got near, and thus Aragorn lended him aid when he could.

For his part, Legolas had aimed only at Orcs. These Men seemed to think there was some difference between the “Wild Men” and them, but Legolas did not see it. They were not his enemy. This land and its divisions and its wars were not his.

What if some of them were cheese thieves, too? What if they cared for their horses as much as the people of Rohan, if not so skillfully? What if they burned candles and sat in silence, or sang songs, to mourn their dead? He did not know what lies Saruman had told them to bring them into battle with Rohan, but it did not matter. None of those lies had been about Legolas.

Anyway, his bet with Gimli had been about Orcs, not Men.

He did not dwell on this. It was a battle. But he only aimed at Orcs.

Legolas missed Gimli behind him, moving in sync as if in a dance. They both would have been twice as deadly if they’d been there together.

Forty, Legolas thought, as he slashed an Orc in the neck and it fell unmoving to the ground. But that was his only kill for a long, long time.

Another woman came over to join Gimli’s small, silent group, and Gimli turned, relieved.

“Is all well here?” she said.

“It is,” said Aldwyn. “I found Gimli in the caves, but he had only a shallow head wound. His helmet turned the blow.”

“You are lucky,” said the woman, smiling. “I am Saehild.”

“Gimli, at your service,” said Gimli, bowing from a sitting position; he did not dare get up for this, not with a head wound and two Healers standing over him.

She bowed back, then turned to Aldwyn. “You should get some rest. You have been here since nightfall, and it is nearly morning.”

“I am not tired,” said Aldwyn. “I can do more. Please—I can’t rest, not now.”

Gimli looked at Saehild, who was biting her lip, clearly torn. A tired Healer could do much damage, yet well did he know the feeling of restlessness, and from Saehild’s expression, so did she.

“Show me the caves,” he said. Both women turned to him.

“You should be resting,” said Aldwyn.

“I cannot any more than you can,” said Gimli. “And I cannot return to battle, but I can still walk. Please—it will distract us both. And if you will release Gamling, he has promised to come too, and I deem he would be happy for the distraction as well.”

“I would,” said Gamling. “My wound is shallow also, and the pain fades more each moment. Yet my anxiety only grows.”

Aldwyn looked Saehild, who at last nodded. “Take food and drink first,” she said. “I will bring some to you both. And then go armed. I do not think Orcs will enter the tunnels, but you would be better off not caught unaware.”

“Do you have a sword?” said Gimli to Aldwyn.

“I do,” she said.

“Then if you fight even half as well as your wife and the other women of this land, we will be well protected indeed.”

Both women smiled at him. “I will return,” said Saehild, and she was true to her word. Gamling also looked at him gratefully.

They ate and drank together, then passed into the Glittering Caves, and took a few other Healers who had also been also instructed to rest with them, so that they could have more lanterns to show him the caves to their fullest.

Gimli never forgot what he saw there. The walls of minerals in many colors, the still pools reflecting in perfect clarity the twisted formations around them, the pillars of stone lit by many glimmering lanterns. He looked in silent awe, moved almost to tears by the beauty around him, composing in his head the meager words he must use to describe it after he left.

His new friends seemed at first taken aback by his silence, but when they saw his face in the dim light they smiled, and began to tell stories of the caverns and what had taken place in them. What had been found by whom, and the names they had given things. Gimli treasured their words, and told them so when he could find voice to speak again.

Gimli knew there were caves in the deep places of the world, underneath mountains less forbidding, more eroded by time, but old, older than life itself, and the caves within them were so deep and so still that no creature or plant had been born into them and died, nor ever entered them at all. No stone remains had ever been found in them. They were old—older than bones.

These caves were not so old, but still they were old enough. If he could have run his fingers over the rocks or closed his eyes in darkness to fully sense the weight and history of the stones around him, he could have known their exact age. But they had been formed drip by single drip over thousands of years, and looking at the strength and width of the structures told him all he needed to know. Perhaps another time he would come back alone, or with Dwarves, and discover their true age, but more worthy now was being told their more recent history by the ones who had found them.

He bowed low when they were finished. “You have given me a gift worth more than any gold,” he said. “And I thank you.”

They returned the bow, for even in a short time they had learned some of his manners. Gimli thought in admiration that this was a people who honored the customs of others. Perhaps they were cautious and wary, and knew more of war than of wisdom, but they were kind and generous once they opened their hearts. And when they met someone who was an expert at something, they deferred to that person without hesitation.

He was growing to respect them; he felt lucky to have met them.

“And you have honored us with your praise,” said Aldwyn. “Come—it is dawn. The king’s sister-son, Éomer, is asking for you and Gamling. Let us go up and learn our fate.”

The land had changed. Where before the green dale had lain, its grassy slopes lapping the ever-mounting hills, there now a forest loomed. Great trees, bare and silent, stood, rank on rank, with tangled bough and hoary head; their twisted roots were buried in the long green grass. Darkness was under them. Between the Dike and the eaves of that nameless wood only two open furlongs lay. There now cowered the proud hosts of Saruman, in terror of the king and in terror of the trees. They streamed down from Helm’s Gate until all above the Dike was empty of them, but below it they were packed like swarming flies. Vainly they crawled and clambered about the walls of the coomb, seeking to escape. Upon the east too sheer and stony was the valley’s side; upon the left, from the west, their final doom approached.

There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in white, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on foot; their swords were in their hands. Amid them strode a man tall and strong. His shield was red. As he came to the valley’s brink, he set to his lips a great black horn and blew a ringing blast.

“Erkenbrand!’” the Riders shouted. “Erkenbrand!”

“Behold the White Rider!” cried Aragorn. “Gandalf is come again!”

“Mithrandir, Mithrandir!” said Legolas. “This is wizardry indeed! Come! I would look on this forest, ere the spell changes.”

The hosts of Isengard roared, swaying this way and that, turning from fear to fear. Again the horn sounded from the tower. Down through the breach of the Dike charged the king’s company. Down from the hills leaped Erkenbrand, lord of Westfold. Down leaped Shadowfax, like a deer that runs surefooted in the mountains. The White Rider was upon them, and the terror of his coming filled the enemy with madness. The wild men fell on their faces before him. The Orcs reeled and screamed and cast aside both sword and spear. Like a black smoke driven by a mounting wind they fled. Wailing they passed under the waiting shadow of the trees; and from that shadow none ever came again.

The trees before Legolas were old, older than he could tell without walking among them, but more than that they were angry. And such voices he had never heard before, unlike any tree in the waking world! He felt as if he had gone from one stupor to the next; suddenly nothing else in the world mattered. He moved towards them as if in a dream, wishing to walk among them and hear their voices, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned and saw Aragorn shaking his head.

“I do not know what they are,” said Aragorn. “Or where they came from. But I think it would be best to wait for Gandalf.”

A whole forest before them, and Aragorn would have him wait for a wizard before entering it! Legolas sometimes thought that it was clear Aragorn had been raised by Elves but was not one of them. Still there was a note in Aragorn’s voice, the one that reminded him of his father, that stopped him from arguing.

And so he gazed up on it instead, getting as close as he could, peering into shadows that became deeper the longer he looked. How were they so dark? What rage was buried in these trees, and what did they rage against? Around Legolas, there was screaming as Orcs fled into the forest, but they did not seem to heed him, nor he them. When one got too close, he slashed out on instinct, stabbing it in the neck so that it fell before his feet, and he thought, almost in a daze—

Forty-one.

No other Orc got near him after that. He stood staring into the trees, perceiving nothing but anger and hatred and heat he did not understand, until all the Orcs were gone.

So it was that in the light of a fair morning King Théoden and Gandalf the White Rider met again upon the green grass beside the Deeping-stream. There was also Aragorn son of Arathorn, and Legolas the Elf, and Erkenbrand of Westfold, and the lords of the Golden House. About them were gathered the Rohirrim, the Riders of the Mark: wonder overcame their joy in victory, and their eyes were turned towards the wood.

Suddenly there was a great shout, and down from the Dike came those who had been driven back into the Deep. There came Gamling the Old, and Éomer son of Éomund, and beside them walked Gimli the dwarf. He had no helm, and about his head was a linen band stained with blood; but his voice was loud and strong.

“Forty-two, Master Legolas!” he cried. “Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?”

“You have passed my score by one,” answered Legolas. “But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!”

Aragorn pulled Legolas away from the strange forest at last, and Legolas blinked into the bright light of the rising sun, wondering where he was and what had happened. But in an instant when he saw Gimli’s face and heard his voice, all of his anxiety returned at the same moment as joy filled his heart for the first time in what felt like an Age, for Gimli was alive, and he was well, and—

And he had won the contest.

Still Legolas laughed for sheer joy, for he no longer cared. He would have embraced Gimli then and there, and not cared for what happened next, had the eyes of Gandalf and Aragorn and—too many other important people to count—not been on them. Instead he settled for trying to outshine the sun with his smile, and Gimli seemed to be doing the same thing, for he was beaming up at him and laughing.

“I told you,” Gimli said while the others talked. “Set a Dwarf on his legs, and no one and nothing can stand a chance against him.”

“I will not doubt again,” said Legolas fervently. “Indeed I wish you had been there after I ran out of arrows—well do I remember our fight at Amon Hen. I could have used you behind me as you were then.”

Gimli’s eyes on him were suddenly intense and searching. “Then I will be, if you will have me,” he said, so softly Legolas almost did not hear it.

“I would,” Legolas said, just as softly. His heart was turning over in his chest, frantic at the devotion he saw there, but he could only hope that Gimli saw it returned as much as he felt it.

They looked at each other for a moment, before looking quickly away. There were important decisions being made, and they must be a part of them. They must ride to Isengard with Gandalf and Théoden; Aragorn must tend to Gimli’s wound; they must put off a much-needed conversation for another day, for time moved swiftly now and they could not stand still for fear of the world ending if they did.

Legolas wished, with sudden clarity, and for the first time since leaving home, that he could have one hour of the slow endless days of Mirkwood. He had fought a battle without his kin after all, but nothing could replace time—and he could do so much more with it now than he could then.

Gimli smiled ruefully at him as Aragorn tended his wound. Legolas wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

“The Healers here did well enough,” said Aragorn, not disapprovingly. “I will wash the wound with athelas, and give you a clean bandage, and you will heal more quickly.”

“It was Cwenhild’s wife,” Gimli told Legolas, and at his confused look: “The woman we met on the wall. Her wife Aldwyn was the Healer who found me and bandaged me up properly.”

“Oh,” said Legolas. “She must have been worried, waiting down there knowing the one she loved was in a near-hopeless fight and she could not help.”

“She was,” said Gimli. His gaze was intent, piercing. “So were we all. But the people of this land are strong; they did not complain, and they wished only to do as much as they could to help until the battle was done.”

“Fighting, too, staves off worry and fear for your friends,” said Legolas.

“It does,” said Gimli. “For a time.”

After a time, Aragorn cleared his throat, and when they looked away from each other and at him, they realized he was done bandaging Gimli’s wound.

“I must thank Aldwyn for finding you,” he said. “The cut was not deep, as you said, but you would have bled more without her help.”

“We must find her, and Cwenhild too, and see that they have been reunited,” said Gimli. He did not say and see if Cwenhild is alive, but they all heard it.

“There is not much time,” said Aragorn. “You need rest, and we ride at dusk. But I can look for her—”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Gimli just as Legolas made a noise of protest. Aragorn looked at them in surprise, and they exchanged a glance of perfect understanding.

“You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” said Legolas sternly.

“You fought beside the King and his likely heir tonight,” said Gimli. “You led in battle.”

“You both did the same,” Aragorn protested, but weakly.

“Yet we are not future kings of men,” said Legolas.

“Nor are we needed in the planning of a ride out at dusk. And if I need rest, so do you,” said Gimli.

“Kings should walk among the people,” said Aragorn, but he had already collapsed in a chair and did not seem likely to move, to Legolas’s relief.

“Certainly,” said Gimli. “After they’ve rested. And anyway, you don’t know what either of the people we’re looking for look like.”

“A Ranger is used to finding things out,” Aragorn mumbled, more as a token protest than anything else, or so it seemed to Legolas.

“A King is good at delegating,” Legolas told him, trying and failing to not sound like his father. Gimli snorted into his beard, and even Aragorn managed a smile.

“Promise me you’ll both rest before you go anywhere,” he said.

“We will look for our friends now, but take a moment with you before we ride out,” Gimli said. “The Three Hunters should stay together when we can.”

They waited until Aragorn was snoring in his chair, taking some rest themselves, before quietly leaving. Gimli seemed alert to Legolas; he said he had rested enough in the Healing Caves, though he wanted to rest again before riding out.

For his part, Legolas no longer doubted nor dared to doubt the hardiness of Dwarves. Here was Gimli beside him once more, despite a fear he had not dared himself to name. If it meant the yawning gulf between them had returned once more, he could bear it another day, another hour, another minute in the way that it seemed mortals perceived the passing of time, just to have Gimli with him again.

They looked for Aldwyn first, and found her in the fortress with other Healers. Gimli was relieved to see that Cwenhild was with her, then touched when smiles lit up both their faces as he and Legolas approached.

“You are both well!” said Cwhenild when they reached her bed, and they saw that she was injured, with a bandage on her lower leg. She smiled ruefully at them when she saw them look at it in alarm. “It is not a shallow cut, I’m afraid. It will heal, but it will take some time. I will not be fighting in the next battle, if it is soon—and it will be. But I am glad to see you both on your feet!”

“We are glad to see you too,” said Gimli. “Aldwyn, this is Legolas,” he added, as Legolas bowed in Elf fashion. “But we will have to send our friend Aragorn to see you,” he added to Cwenhild. “He was raised with Elves, and has their skill and more with healing.”

Both women’s eyebrows rose at the name. “I have no doubt,” said Aldwyn. “That would be a kindness indeed.”

“He would be happy to,” said Gimli. “He would have come to thank you for tending my wound—he said you did well and wanted to say so to you himself—but we made him sleep first.”

Aldwyn laughed. “Then I must thank you for making one more exhausted warrior get some rest,” she said. “Though I wonder that you both are still walking around.”

Cwenhild made a sympathetic face at them. “This means she likes you,” she said. “She will insist upon taking care of you regardless of whether you need it.”

Gimli laughed. “I rested before coming,” he said. “And Elves, according to Legolas, don’t need sleep.”

“We can go longer without rest, and our sleep is different from yours,” Legolas corrected, in the tone of one who had now patiently said this a thousand times and no longer mustered the energy to be annoyed. “As I have told you a thousand times, yet you still see the need to spread misinformation about Elves.”

“I was simplifying,” said Gimli. “And why not, when you are always here to correct me?”

“I shudder to think what you say when I am not there,” Legolas retorted.

“Well, then you must never leave,” Gimli said, lightly, though the words themselves were not light at all. He turned to the two women, avoiding Legolas’s eyes—they were watching them intently. “Regardless, we will be all right for a while. We wanted to see that you were well.”

“Well enough,” said Cwenhild, smiling tightly. It did not reach her eyes. “Better if an Orc had not slashed me in the leg an hour before the end of battle and the coming of dawn.”

Gimli winced, and felt Legolas do the same beside him. It was no easy thing to survive so long only to be injured in the last throes.

“Still you are alive,” said Aldwyn vehemently. “And warriors have traded more for their lives, in less time.”

Cwenhild grasped her hand. “I am glad for that,” she said, meeting Aldywn’s eyes. “I am glad to have survived to come back to you.”

Aldwyn sighed, and softened. “I am, too,” she admitted.

Gimli almost looked away, feeling as though he was intruding on something private, before Cwenhild continued— “It was not as though they would let me fight in the next battle, anyway.”

“Why not?” said Gimli and Legolas at once, both startled.

Cwenhild snorted. “They will not even take any of the shieldmaidens to parley with Saruman.”

“It is in the name,” Aldwyn explained. “Shield. They can only fight battles at home. They do not go abroad.”

“We are not going into battle,” said Legolas, sounding as confused as Gimli felt. “And if we go to make peace, does it not also concern you also?”

Both women looked at him, as if to say, we have said this, and it has not been heard.

“He may not listen to us,” said Gimli. “But if you wish, we can bring this to Éomer. Or send him to you to hear your case. Perhaps some ears will be more open now that other voices are gone.”

“Yet their influence remains,” said Cwenhild. “And they preyed on fears and prejudices already in men’s hearts.”

Well did Gimli know how fear and suspicion could infect a mind against even the noblest of people, against all reason. He’d wondered since he’d arrived what those poisons were doing to the people of this land; now it seemed he had his answer. Or at least an answer.

“Perhaps it will not change if you try, but it definitely will not if you do not,” said Aldwyn.

“And how many times must I try again?” Cwenhild said, softly, sounding tired, and that Gimli did not know if he was meant to hear. He took a step back, trying to give them privacy, and Legolas did the same.

“Once more,” said Aldwyn, just as quietly. She was now holding both of Cwenhild’s hands, looking her in the eyes. “Always once more.” She said something else, even more quietly, that Gimli did not hear—some endearment not for his ears.

“Very well,” said Cwenhild at last, louder so that they could hear. “But first stay a moment—let us talk a moment. I believe I promised you a story.”

“Yes,” said Gimli, sitting down on a nearby chair at least. “We must hear about how a Healer married a cheese-thief!”

Aldwyn laughed. “Both of my fathers have never quite forgiven her for that,” she said. “Impressive in battle though she is!”

“I assume one of of your fathers makes cheese,” said Gimli, smiling.

“Is the other a Healer also?” said Legolas.

“Of horses, like me, yes,” said Aldwyn. “My father who makes cheese runs our small farm. He is also deaf—which is why Cwenhild was able to sneak up on him.”

“I did not intend to sneak up on him at all,” said Cwenhild. “I had no notion he was there. I thought the shed was empty.”

“And if you hadn’t scared him and the horses, you might have been forgiven,” Aldwyn said.

“Did your fathers truly disapprove so highly?” said Legolas. He sounded anxious to Gimli, though for what reason he could not say.

“Oh, no,” said Aldwyn. “I speak in jest only. She more than impressed them both by learning to speak to my father through sign. And when they met her father they started giving her as much cheese as she wanted for free.”

A cloud passed over Cwenhild’s face. “And he did disapprove,” she said. “Of everything, really. So it didn’t matter. If he’d been feeding my mothers and brothers properly to begin with I never would have been there stealing in the first place.”

“So you made your own family,” said Gimli.

“Yes,” said Cwenhild. “And the rest are free of him now, too. My brothers did not fight tonight, but they are stationed elsewhere, and they are well. And my mother is safe.” She did not say how that came to be, and they did not ask. But Gimli saw Aldwyn gently squeeze her hand. “There is much between us, and we are not—I do not know if we will ever be a family as we should. But we are safe.”

“Sometimes that is enough,” said Legolas gently. “And you do have a family.”

“I do,” said Cwenhild, smiling at him. “I see you, too, know something of finding your own family.”

“Something of it,” said Legolas. He glanced at Gimli, and Gimli met his gaze, but he knew it was worried; he knew they were both thinking of the hobbits. Gandalf had told them not to worry about them, but now that they seemed to be finishing their business in Rohan, the thought of them was coming back. And he thought of Frodo and Sam also, and hoped beyond hope that they were well.

The Fellowship had become a family, even in a short time. They had lost a member and it had hurt like losing a brother; as badly as losing Balin. And though the next steps of their journey were laid out for them, Gimli could not help but wonder where they would go next, and what would happen to their little family.

Legolas was about to make a polite excuse to leave, to let their new friends rest and give him and Gimli a chance to find both Aragorn and Éomer as they had promised, when both of the men they needed to look for by chance entered the room.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at them. “You promised me you would rest,” he said, mostly to Gimli.

“We will,” said Gimli. “But first we needed to find one who fought beside us, and one who saved my life.” He gestured to the two women, and introduced them. Aragorn immediately began to tend to Cwenhild when he saw her wound, and Éomer bowed low when he heard their deeds.

“You have served Rohan well tonight,” he said gravely. “And I thank you.”

Aldwyn rose and bowed, and Cwenhild bowed her head. Legolas surmised that women of their stature and profession did not curtsy even before royalty in this land, if at all. He glanced at Gimli, who returned his approving look. This was a young land; its traditions were not so ancient as his own. Some of them seemed foolish. But they were a proud people and prudent in their own way that time would turn into wisdom, if time they were given. Legolas was glad to have defended them.

“It was an honor, my lord,” said Cwenhild, then took a deep breath. She glanced briefly at Legolas and Gimli, then for longer at Aldwyn, before turning back to Éomer. “Yet I fear that Rohan does not fully serve us.”

Éomer looked startled, and also looked at Legolas, who gazed steadily back at him; Gimli beside him did the same. Aragorn spoke no word, but continued wrapping Cwenhild’s wound. His face betrayed nothing.

“You are sending no women to Isengard,” said Aldwyn when Éomer said nothing, and Cwenhild seemed to not know how to continue. “Ever is war made in our name, and we fight and die in it, but we have no say in how peace is made.”

“Yet it has always been so,” said Éomer, though he sounded thoughtful, not angry. “Shieldmaidens do not go abroad; our company rides to Isengard.”

“To parley,” said Cwenhild. “Not to fight. Does this not concern us also? Did we not die beside you?”

Éomer looked around him, but found no answers in the other faces looking back at him. Legolas would not speak if the women did not ask him to, or if he was not spoken to directly. Gimli had gone still as stone, in the manner of a patient, unmovable Dwarf, and Legolas found that he loved the feeling of stillness beside him when he needed it now.

Aragorn did not lift his eyes, yet it was to Aragorn that Éomer looked.

“You rode long in our land, you say,” he said at last. “You know our traditions. What do you think would be said, if I tried to do this?”

Cwenhild inhaled a short, sharp breath. “You would ask a stranger—” she began; but Aldwyn laid a hand on her arm.

“Please,” she said softly.

“My apologies,” said Cwenhild, after a long, tense moment. “I am tired after battle; I did not think.”

It was a lie, and Legolas thought her right to be angry, but Éomer nodded anyway.

Aragorn looked at her face for a moment, then nodded, as though coming to a decision.

“Yet I think you are right,” he said to her. He turned to Éomer. “Did you not ask me, when we met, how a man is to judge what to do in these times? And did I not say that good and ill has not changed, and it is a man’s part to discern them? How is a leader to decide what the needs of his people are, without speaking to his people? I have not known you long, but never since I have met you, have you given more care for the speech of a stranger than what is right and what is wrong.”

He fell silent, and resumed tending Cwenhild’s wound. He was nearly done, to Legolas’s eye.

Éomer nodded slowly. “You are my friend, not a stranger,” he said. “Yet I take your meaning. We must speak further,” he said to Cwenhild. “Quickly, for time is pressing. But I will hear you.”

“I thank you,” said Cwenhild. “Truly.”

Aragorn finished wrapping her wound, stood, and bowed. “We must take our leave, then,” he said, nodding to Legolas and Gimli. To Aldwyn he said: “You need not care for her wound any differently than you would before, but it will heal more quickly now.”

Aldwyn bowed. “You have done us a great service, lord,” she said. She did not mean only the wound care, Legolas thought.

“It was very little,” said Aragorn. “You did most of it yourself. I had only to ease the pain.” He also did not mean the wound only.

Legolas and Gimli, for their parts, bowed to both women, and Legolas smiled faintly at them as they said their farewells.

“If we do not meet again, our roads will be poorer for it,” said Gimli as he bowed. “Yet they have been happier for the chance of our friendship.”

Cwenhild smiled. “It was an honor to fight beside you both,” she said.

“Take care of that head,” Aldwyn told him.

Legolas only bowed. He could not say goodbye so eloquently as Gimli, yet the words spoke for him also, so he would not cheapen them. He thought they saw this in his face, for they both smiled at him before he, Gimli, and Aragorn turned and walked away, leaving them with Éomer to discuss their plans.

As they did, Aragorn was quiet, and Legolas feared he was preparing to admonish them about resting again. Yet he did not. He only said, “That was well done.”

“We only stood by,” said Legolas, startled. “You were right. They did it themselves.” But it had been Gimli’s idea that they should speak up again, and he felt himself glowing with pride, that his friend should inspire people so. As he inspired Legolas all the time. Had he not made a wager that had kept Legolas fighting even when despair crashed around him? Had he not been the one to make friends to begin with, in the midst of a fight among strangers, inspiring them both further to defend this strange country with their blood?

“Yet sometimes that is all that is needed,” Aragorn said. He sighed. “I fear they are not the only women in this country who rattle at the bars of a needless cage. And even if they are allowed to go to Isengard, no women will be sent into battles outside of Rohan. They will be left here to defend it.”

“Someone must,” said Gimli. “Though I do not know why you would decide such a thing based on a person’s gender.”

“Men will see it as weakness, to be left here, because it is the women who are left,” said Aragorn. “And the women will resent it, even though it is a necessary thing. Yet I do not think...” he sighed. “Not all women should fight,” he said at last.

Legolas could see from the look in his eye that he was thinking of Arwen, but he and Gimli still exchanged an exasperated glance. “Nor would they,” he said, trying to be patient. “You know that going to battle is not required of every Elf, even in times of war. But who stays home to guard our lands, or who leaves to protect our future; we decide that differently.”

“So do Dwarves,” said Gimli.

“I know,” said Aragorn. “Many men will not see it that way. Some will see it as an evil thing, for women to die fighting in war. Even here, where they only allow women to defend.” He saw their faces, and spoke before one of them could say what they were both thinking. “I know. It is not for others to decide their fate for them. But I think we can do no more. The women here are strong, and their voices are also. They will be heard.”

Legolas saw Gimli shoot him a sidelong glance. “What of the women of Gondor?” he said. “Do they also fight?”

“They used to,” said Aragorn. “Before the time of the Stewards. Gondor loves tradition and the old ways, but they have waned there, too.” He spoke rarely of Gondor, and did not say more now. Legolas thought he could guess why; it was yet too far out of reach to speak of aloud. But he looked thoughtful.

“Still you are right,” said Gimli. Legolas thought he seemed satisfied that he’d made his point. “That road is yet ahead of you; and us. We should look ahead now to tonight and tomorrow. And you were also right, that I need a few hour’s rest before we go.”

Aragorn gave him a look that was half a smile. “So you will take my advice, before it is too late?”

“Yours and the Healers of Rohan,” said Gimli haughtily, though he also smiled. “And Legolas will come with me, for as much as he claims that Elves don’t need sleep—”

Legolas gave Aragorn a long-suffering look at this, and Aragorn chuckled, but he did not waste breath correcting him.

“—he would likely benefit from an hour or two of rest as well.”

When Aragorn looked at him, Legolas nodded his agreement. “There is nowhere else I would rather be,” he said.

“I will find you when you are needed,” Aragorn promised, and left them, still smiling to himself over some unseen joke.

They were alone again, walking back to rooms where they could rest, but all was not quiet. Helm’s Deep had not been still since they had arrived, except in back corners—Legolas could not think of that staircase now, even though it had never truly left his mind—and now it was a busy hive of men, bustling to and fro preparing for many different people to be moved in many different directions.

He did not say any words that were in his mind, let alone in his heart, until they were alone in an empty room—and even then, he was not sure it would be empty for long. There were many beds, for many men now needed rest.

Legolas sat awkwardly on one, wishing they could push two beds together. But somehow that seemed different than sharing a boat or a space on the ground. Out in the wild, they might share body warmth without assumptions or questions; here, Legolas did not know where they stood and did not wish to ask. Not now.

Gimli sat too, but not before dragging the bed closer. He saw Legolas’s surprised look and said, gruffly, “Do not think you are the only one who sleeps better when not alone. This isn’t good enough, of course, but it will have to do.”

“You noticed,” said Legolas, as Gimli sat down across from him.

“That you are as twitchy as Pippin in a mine when you’re left to sleep alone? Yes,” said Gimli. He sighed. “And anyway, as I said, I am not so different.”

Legolas held his gaze; his knees were touching Gimli’s bed and they were not far apart at all. “It seems I cannot have secrets from you, any more than you can have them from me,” he said quietly. He referenced their conversation on the stairs deliberately, hoping Gimli would remember, and that the battle and the gash on his head—which he could not stand to look at—had not driven it from his mind.

Gimli’s breath caught. This close, Legolas could see more deeply into his eyes, so often obscured by his helmet, and they were dark and fathomless. He knew at once that Gimli had not forgotten, that indeed it had not left his mind at all, though what he meant to do, Legolas did not know and could only begin to hope.

Time was suspended for only an instant, and he was about to discover what it meant that Gimli looked at him that way, that his heart raced when he saw it, that he suddenly felt he’d been waiting the thousands of years of his life for this moment and this moment only—

Someone entered the room, and he remembered with a start that they were still not alone, and had not been in what seemed an Age.

Gimli did not jump, only looked away. Whoever had entered seemed to be looking for something, and found it quickly then left—but the spell was broken, and when Gimli looked back, there was an apology in his eyes, but nothing else.

“We should rest,” he said.

“Yes,” said Legolas. “We did promise.”

“We did,” said Gimli. He turned away, and laid down, and Legolas did the same, and pretended something in him did not shatter as Gimli’s gaze left his.

They slept until they were assembled in the late afternoon, and rode out at sunset into the dusk.

Chapter Text

Legolas and Gimli were now riding together upon one horse; and they kept close beside Gandalf, for Gimli was afraid of the wood.

“It is hot in here,” said Legolas to Gandalf. “I feel a great wrath about me. Do you not feel the air throb in your ears?’

“Yes,” said Gandalf.

...

They rode in silence for a while; but Legolas was ever glancing from side to side, and would often have halted to listen to the sounds of the wood, if Gimli had allowed it.

“These are the strangest trees that ever I saw,” he said; “and I have seen many an oak grow from acorn to ruinous age. I wish that there were leisure now to walk among them: they have voices, and in time I might come to understand their thought.”

“No, no!” said Gimli. “Let us leave them! I guess their thought already: hatred of all that go on two legs; and their speech is of crushing and strangling.”

“Not of all that go on two legs,” said Legolas. “There I think you are wrong. It is Orcs that they hate. For they do not belong here and know little of Elves and Men. Far away are the valleys where they sprang. From the deep dales of Fangorn, Gimli, that is whence they come, I guess.”

Gimli did not wish to be on a horse again. No matter what he told Aragorn about getting enough rest, he was tired from a long battle, and his mind was still wandering in the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. He thought also of Legolas’s face when he emerged alive, and the lessening of the ache in his own chest when he saw his friend again.

Still, if he could not find his way back to the caves, or even to that staircase in the back of Helm’s Deep, or a too-trafficked room—well, Gimli could not entirely complain about having Legolas warm and solid behind him, even if it did mean having to be on horseback with him.

For indeed he rode in front of Legolas this time, instead of behind. He did miss clinging to Legolas’s back, a little, but he found that Legolas’s arms around him, steadying him in place, were an excellent substitute. And he also preferred being able to see what was in front of him, instead of having his head constantly turned sideways or smashed into Legolas’s back.

Yet he did not like being among these strange and stifling trees, and there was an odd note in Legolas’s voice when he spoke about them. How long would an Elf spend trying to understand the voices and thoughts of trees? If Legolas longed for such things, would he go away to be among the trees? How long would he stay? Or would he flit about from place to place, never staying too long anywhere, never resting until he had spoken to every tree in Middle-Earth?

Where would Gimli be? Alone, in his caves?

To Gimli, the trees seemed to throb with more than just hatred of Orcs. He didn’t know what they held, but he was certain they were hostile to him and his kind. And he thought, for the first time, of all the differences that yet remained between him and Legolas.

“Strange are the ways of Men, Legolas! Here they have one of the marvels of the Northern World, and what do they say of it? Caves, they say! Caves! Holes to fly to in time of war, to store fodder in! My good Legolas, do you know that the caverns of Helm’s Deep are vast and beautiful? There would be an endless pilgrimage of Dwarves, merely to gaze at them, if such things were known to be. Aye indeed, they would pay pure gold for a brief glance!”

“And I would give gold to be excused,” said Legolas; “and double to be let out, if I strayed in!”

“You have not seen, so I forgive your jest,” said Gimli. “But you speak like a fool. Do you think those halls are fair, where your King dwells under the hill in Mirkwood, and Dwarves helped in their making long ago? They are but hovels compared with the caverns I have seen here: immeasurable halls, filled with an everlasting music of water that tinkles into pools, as fair as Kheled-zâram in the starlight.”

…

“Then I will wish you this fortune for your comfort, Gimli,” said the Elf, “that you may come safe from war and return to see them again. But do not tell all your kindred! There seems little left for them to do, from your account. Maybe the men of this land are wise to say little: one family of busy dwarves with hammer and chisel might mar more than they made.”

“No, you do not understand,” said Gimli. “No dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness. None of Durin’s race would mine those caves for stones or ore, not if diamonds and gold could be got there. Do you cut down groves of blossoming trees in the springtime for firewood? We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them.”

Legolas had heard Gimli speak with a silver tongue, fair words finely crafted and delicately honed, as he imagined Gimli must craft precious metals when he was given the chance. Yet he had never heard such poetry from him—and as he listened, Gimli continued, and Legolas was desperately glad that he could not see his face or hear his pounding heart. Gimli had never spoken at such length before, not even about the Lady Galadriel herself. His words created visions for Legolas, castles in the air such as Legolas had only ever heard before in Elvish poetry.

He was ashamed of the thought that he did not know Dwarves could speak this way. He knew Gimli was silver-tongued, but this was different, somehow. This was—passion. He swallowed thickly, and tried not to wonder if there was anything else that could bring this mood on. He tried also not to shift uncomfortably or too noticeably on Arod.

Legolas was ashamed once again when Gimli corrected him about the ways of Dwarves and caves, for of course his kin would find such things as beautiful as Gimli did. But Gimli did not sound angry—he found more poetry, and built up more visions for Legolas to envision, full of light and song and Dwarvish beauty.

The like of which, Legolas knew all too well, he was starting to find as beautiful as any forest in all the world.

“You move me, Gimli,” said Legolas. “I have never heard you speak like this before. Almost you make me regret that I have not seen these caves. Come! Let us make this bargain – if we both return safe out of the perils that await us, we will journey for a while together. You shall visit Fangorn with me, and then I will come with you to see Helm’s Deep.”

“That would not be the way of return that I should choose,” said Gimli. “But I will endure Fangorn, if I have your promise to come back to the caves and share their wonder with me.”

“You have my promise,” said Legolas.

Gimli’s heart lifted—his response to Legolas was gruff, but he suddenly felt that he would visit every forest in the world if Legolas was with him, and would come see caves with him as well—the woods were not so dark after all, and neither was the road ahead.

He would show Legolas the beauty of caves, of light in the darkness and glimmering stone and still waters. They would see the heart of the mountain together.

Perhaps it would be enough.

At last the company passed through the trees, and found that they had come to the bottom of the Coomb, where the road from Helm’s Deep branched, going one way east to Edoras, and the other north to the Fords of Isen. As they rode from under the eaves of the wood, Legolas halted and looked back with regret. Then he gave a sudden cry.

“There are eyes!” he said. “Eyes looking out from the shadows of the boughs! I never saw such eyes before.”

The others, surprised by his cry, halted and turned; but Legolas started to ride back.

“No, no!” cried Gimli. “Do as you please in your madness, but let me first get down from this horse! I wish to see no eyes!”

“Stay, Legolas Greenleaf!” said Gandalf. “Do not go back into the wood, not yet! Now is not your time.”

Already Legolas was taken by this new, strange, forest, and it took great restraint to yield to the wisdom of Gandalf and not follow his instinct to stray into its depths. Already it was only Gimli’s presence, his voice speaking the strange poetry of rocks and caves, that kept him from dwelling too long on what might he might find within trees that he had never seen before.

But as they left the woods, far too soon, the eyes—the eyes were too much. He could not see such eyes without hearing their voices; no living Elf could! Wisdom left him, and he was turning before he could think.

He would have continued, found out what mysteries lay behind those eyes, had new mysteries, tall tree-creatures that he knew to be Ents even without Gandalf’s explanation—which he barely heard, so stunned was he to see them—not emerged from the woods. He drew up short, staring, drinking them up with his eyes. Gimli grumbled, but what he said, Legolas did not know. There was a strange ringing in his ears, that did not subside until the Ents vanished and the company turned away from the woods.

He followed, but did not speak for some time, for a powerful longing had risen in his throat, and forcing it down was painful.

Too soon he was torn; far, far too soon. Every time he thought he would not have to choose, doubt rose.

But he would not, would he? He had promised to see Gimli’s caves. Gimli would come to Fangorn with him.

And yet—

Legolas knew now that a vow from a Dwarf was worth more than gold, that he would never doubt his friend’s steadfastness again. He also knew that Gimli would take his own promise to be as solid and true as mithril itself.

It fell to him, then, to keep his vow. But for the first time he wondered what else in Middle-Earth would call to him that would not call to Gimli.

They must agree to go together. It was the only way. They must not always be following each other; it must be equal. Legolas must do his best not to go riding off into the distance into the first glade of trees he saw against the advice of older and wiser voices, no matter how strange their eyes and voices.

Easy it was to think this now. He knew this. But he must do it. He must travel into caverns and learn their secrets, must teach the beauty of strange glades and trees.

He still wondered what lurked behind those strange eyes.

They rode now at an easy pace and dark came down upon the plains about them. The slow moon mounted, now waxing towards the full, and in its cold silver light the swelling grass-lands rose and fell like a wide grey sea. They had ridden for some four hours from the branching of the roads when they drew near to the Fords.

Gimli could tell that Legolas was uneasy behind him. He had been so taken by that forest; perhaps his mind was wandering in glades where Gimli could not follow, pondering mysteries that Gimli could not understand.

He swallowed, trying to focus on the wide plains around them, though in his eyes they were dim and colorless. Legolas had promised. He would not leave him for the woods, not at least until they had seen the caves together.

Their pace was not hard, even for Gimli, and it left room for conversation, but neither of them were in any state to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled on the company.

Thus it fell to Éomer, and when he spoke, it was to Aragorn.

Actually, they had likely been speaking in low tones to each other for some time when Gimli finally began to hear what they were saying.

“The jewel on your breast,” he said. “I do not know much of smithcraft, but the workmanship is old, is it not? Do you wear it as a token or is it more?”

Gimli’s ears pricked up, for he knew only part of the stone’s story, and that it was connected to Arwen in some way—but Aragorn did not speak often of her, was stoic and silent on the topic except when he sometimes sang softly, and got a particular look in his eye that the Fellowship had learned meant he needed a moment alone.

“Is a token not enough?” said Aragorn, smiling, and now he had the interest of the whole company.

“It is the Elfstone,” said Legolas. “Its coming to Aragorn was foretold.”

“Yet also it is a token of the House of the Lady Galadriel,” said Aragorn gently, and paused before adding, “and her grand-daughter.”

Around them the great warriors of Rohan drew breaths of comprehension, and Gimli thought with amusement that they were as bad as Dwarves who had been mining for too long without light and company—hungry for any gossip they could get, especially from an outsider.

“You have not spoken much of the Lady Arwen,” he said, both to tell the Riders her name and to rescue Aragorn if he wanted it; it would disappoint their audience, but he could tell them he chose not to speak of her for his own reasons, and leave it there.

“Nor does any man speak of that which he misses, like a constant ache, but which he must be apart from for an undetermined and endless time,” said Aragorn. His smile was small, bitter. “It is better not to open the wound.”

Gimli did not know if this was truly working for Aragorn as well as he thought, but—well, there was much in his heart that he also did not speak of, for he did not believe speaking of it would lighten a burden he still must bear.

He would have left it there, believing Aragorn was telling them in his own way to indeed let the subject lie, and that he would deal with it in his own way and time—but Éomer had no such reservations.

“You have been apart?” he said. “That is a hard thing to bear.”

“Yes,” said Aragorn. “Almost since we met. Yet we wrote letters, for years. She told me about home, about Rivendell, and begged me to tell her of my travels, so I did my best.” He smiled. Gimli thought, somewhat startled, that perhaps among Men, there were those who simply needed to be asked to speak more, to be drawn out. It was a concept entirely strange to Dwarves. But Aragorn did not seem uncomfortable or upset; he spoke about it haltingly, but not unwillingly.

“She’d traveled herself, a little, but she wanted to hear about it from me. She said it was different the way I told it. When I saw her again, after that, it was as though everything had changed between us. Before, we had been dear friends, but after—” Aragorn huffed a laugh. “Sometimes, I think Elves fall more in love with words than with people.” He shot Legolas a glance that Gimli did not understand at this. “And for my part, I realized—” he cleared his throat. No one spoke, so he was forced to finish his though: “I realized there was no person in the world so dear to me as the one I had left.

“Then it was a gift, that she felt the same,” said Éomer when these words had settled.

Aragorn looked startled. “I suppose. I did not know, at first—” he sighed. “It was a difficult choice to make,” he said softly, at last.

Behind Gimli, Legolas took a sharp breath. “The choice of Lúthien,” he said, even more quietly, and a stone sunk into Gimli’s stomach.

No one spoke, sensing that Aragorn yet had more to say. “It will break her heart, no matter what she does—and I cannot lighten the load for her. I cannot help that I—” he stopped again. “And neither can she,” he said finally, not finishing his sentence, though they all knew what he would say, though he seemed to deem it too precious to speak of. “Yet how could I ask anyone to make such a choice?”

“She will make it, whether you ask or no,” said Legolas, surprising them all by how stern he sounded.

“I know,” said Aragorn.

“And her father will let her do such a thing?” One of the female Riders, near to Éomer, shot him an angry look as he said this. Gimli did not blame her.

There was no custom among Dwarves of parents giving permission for their children—any of their children—to marry. Elves and Men were selective about who entered their families, but a Dwarf was a Dwarf, and they rarely married anyone but another Dwarf, when they married at all. And it seemed to Gimli that this selectiveness applied mainly to the women: no man was ever given permission to marry. This was equally strange to him, for a Dwarf woman wanting to marry was considered an honor. No one would dictate to her who she was allowed to marry, knowing that she could not choose who she loved, and that she and her beloved would only have that love once.

Moreover, a gem, a piece of gold, jewelry: that was property. A person was not. You could not give it away. Gimli thought sometimes that Men treated their daughters as precious by trying to own them. But a stone could not speak, or fight, or create. He thought often that men would lose their daughters if they treated them like even the most precious stone. They could not be protected forever; they must make their own choices; they were strong, and capable of it. They had proven it many times over.

Gimli looked at the woman, who was now staring straight ahead, her jaw set, caught her eye, and nodded. She looked surprised for a moment, before nodding back, and now her expression was weary. He could not say more.

Aragorn, however, could, and was still speaking. “She already has,” he said. “He pushed me to be worthy of her, and it is hard on them both—but she did not need his permission, or mine.” His tone was not sharp, but there was a warning in it, that Éomer heard, for he subsided.

“Of course,” he said. “But to never see her family again…” he trailed off, staring into the distance.

Gimli remembered that he had a sister, Éowyn, whom they’d met briefly but was strong and fierce. She must be dear to him. He sighed. It was a hard thing, also, to lose your family; to create such tension in it. Gimli had traveled in some of the deepest caverns in the world, but these matters were deeper even than that; yet he still thought no one had any right to try and control anyone else. In a deep mine, Dwarves worked together, and trusted each other’s instincts and judgment. Falling into discord and fighting meant death. In the free air, they maintained that trust, as it was built at the very root of the mountains.

Thus a family could survive the strongest storms, the deadliest of attacks. Even when Dwarves had nothing, they had each other. If they remembered that, if they stayed true to those roots, they would never lose each other. Even if—even if someone chose differently than they would have liked.

At least, Gimli thought that was true. He hoped it was.

Legolas spoke again, and Gimli noticed as he did that his voice was tight, and his entire body rigid at Gimli’s back. “Sometimes family is made,” he said. “Perhaps Arwen thinks not of what she will lose, but all that she will gain.”

Aragorn’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though Legolas still was tense. “Perhaps,” he said, with a small smile at Legolas. “And there can be no one else for her.”

Éomer looked at him in surprise. “Cannot or will not? I thought Elves live long—”

“Cannot,” said Aragorn firmly. “It is the way of Elves. If she were to take the westward ships—she would spend eternity heartbroken.”

“Death is the gift of men,” Legolas murmured. But Gimli was staring, almost unseeing, at the plains ahead of him, now sinking even further into his thoughts.

Now he did not think of Dwarves. He knew enough of Dwarves. Or, well, there were questions left unanswered, yet there was nothing he could do to answer them but wait. But now he learned a thing about Elves that he had feared to ask, for what it would reveal about what laid deep within his heart.

He had wondered, once, if monogamy and love meant to Elves what it meant to Dwarves—and it seemed that he had his answer.

But what would the cost of such a thing be, if the choice were made? Dwarves and Men were alike in this way: that they did not know, truly, what awaited them after death. But they were like unto Elves in a way as well: that they wished to be with their kin. Only Elves had the assurance that they would. And only one who loved an Elf knew for certain that they would be separated from their love after death, if that Elf did not follow them to death. Only an Elf who loved a mortal knew for certain that they would never see their kin again, if they loved a mortal.

Gimli had known, in the back of his head, all along, that there was bitterness in these depths. He had not wanted to face them.

Still he had never had any assurance that he would see his family again. He had never known if he would lose a beloved once he died. But apparently an Elf who lost a mortal they loved did have a near assurance, that he—or she—would waste away with a broken heart, or mourn forever in Valinor.

The conversation continued, but Gimli did not hear it.

Legolas set his jaw, glaring at the landscape, ignoring the conversation of Men, and wondering why it was that falling in love with a mortal meant that one had to become a tragedy.

Gandalf rode up beside them after a time, and perhaps only he could have jolted Legolas out of his reverie. Legolas didn’t like the knowing look the Wizard was giving him.

“You are troubled,” Gandalf said after a time.

“I do not suppose you have words of comfort, in this time,” Legolas said. It was the most he was willing to say; the thoughts turning over in his mind were not to be spoken of, and though the Rohirrim were true and stalwart, he did not wish to have this conversation so near to them, if at all.

“Do not regret too long not being able to see more of the trees,” Gandalf said. “I know it was hard, and I will not say more, but you will have your chance.”

Legolas almost blinked in surprise, and fought for control of his face, trying to summon some of his father’s blankness when dealing with matters of governance.

Gimli, who could not see his face and did not know his mood, who had been quiet himself, perhaps with something on his own mind, nevertheless rescued him—he snorted. “Aragorn was right, Gandalf,” he said, amused. “You still speak in riddles!”

Legolas felt himself smile, and relaxed into conversation that was more familiar territory. “It is true,” he said. “They say the words of Elves are mysterious—they have nothing on Wizards! Cold comfort you bring me!”

Gandalf laughed. “I should not have tried at all, if that is how my words will be taken!”

“I have heard the voices of new trees, that I have not heard in all the thousands of seasons of my life, and he tells me to ride away and wait,” Legolas said to Gimli, though it was rather more to Gimli’s head, as he could not see his friend’s face. “Is this why so many mortal men greet him with suspicion? Do you feel this way all the time?”

“Are you having a new emotion, that you need my assistance identifying?” Gimli teased. “They say such pettiness is beneath Elves, but I believe the one you’re feeling is a dear desire to punch him.”

“That might be it,” Legolas said, pretending to be thoughtful. “It seems a fair response, when one is told cryptically to be patient even though there is nothing else to be done.”

“Some things should not be revealed before their time,” Gandalf said, apparently trying to regain his dignity and gravitas, but it was far too late for that.

“New trees,” Legolas sighed, as though that was the most important thing on his mind; he could pretend—he could.

“He’s done nothing but pine for trees since we left Rivendell,” Gimli told Gandalf. “I believe he’ll be fine.”

“Pining for pines,” muttered one of the nearby Rohirrim, who was listening in. Neither of the others noticed, but Legolas’s sharp ears picked it up—he glanced their way, and saw—her—look back at him with a grin and a wink. He smiled and looked away again, but was glad all over that he had said nothing of his true thoughts. There were too many ears, all around them—and now he wished, achingly, for a moment alone with Gimli, or even just his original companions. But that was not to be had.

“You were the first Elf to set foot in Fangorn in an Age,” said Gandalf. “Was that not enough?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gimli said, just as Legolas couldn’t help but give Gandalf an incredulous look. He’d been there for barely a day!

Gandalf’s eyes were dancing back at him. “Mithrandir,” Legolas said, with a laugh. “I know what you are doing.” Trying to cheer them both up; Legolas wondered if he truly did guess what was on his mind—and if he knew what was on Gimli’s.

“Hmm,” said Gandalf. “Do you?”

“Being mysterious again,” Gimli muttered.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards,” Legolas told Gimli’s helmet, wishing he could see the laugh that was surely lurking in the corners of his face.

“For they are subtle and quick to remind you that they are much smarter than you,” Gimli said.

It was Gandalf’s turn to laugh. “Peace!” he cried. “I see that your friendship has wrought an alliance that has made you a terror unto your foes!”

Now Legolas’s laugh was light, and it carried across the empty plains. “Eighty-three Orcs between us, Mithrandir, and Gimli slew the greater part,” he said proudly. “Whatever waits at the end of our road—yes, our foes should fear us.”

Gandalf smiled at them, and his tone in answering was just as light. “I think at the end of this road, at least, you will find more pleasant things than Orcs.”

Legolas did not know what to say to that, but once again Gimli came to his rescue.

“Good, because I’m tired,” Gimli said.

“And the endurance of Dwarves?” Legolas said.

“Does not extend to horseback riding, as you well know,” Gimli fired back. Legolas was left to picture the gleam he always got in his eyes when they got started.

“Thorin and his company rode ponies on their expedition as often as they could get them,” Gandalf said, but he was not looking at them—he was addressing the empty air, as if merely saying an interesting fact that had just occurred to him.

“Yes, my father said he’d never been so sore in his life,” Gimli retorted. “They were as much pack animals as anything else.”

Legolas did not respond right away, and realized with a jolt that he was waiting almost instinctively for a hobbit to chime in with more interesting details about the journey to Erebor. Aragorn had ridden up near them, now, and was listening with an amused smile, but he did not speak—and Legolas realized belatedly that he’d missed his cue.

“You did well enough in a boat,” he said thoughtfully, then almost winced—the subject of boats was too close to what he was truly thinking about. “You do not hate all methods of transportation that are not feet. Perhaps we could find a large fish to take you on its back, and discover if you simply dislike being carried by an animal.”

“No thank you!” said Gimli. “I have heard quite enough about barrels—I do not think a large fish would be any more comfortable!”

Éomer and the king had ridden up them now, too, and were also listening with interest, just as Aragorn said, as though it was just occuring to him: “There’s always the Eagles.”

“Gwaihir has carried Dwarves before,” Gandalf said. Their growing audience exchanged baffled looks.

“Out of a burning forest,” Gimli retorted, and now Legolas knew for sure that Gimli had noticed how the Rohirrim were listening in—he would not continue to embellish the story otherwise. “And I’ve heard about how that went as well, especially from Dori who had poor Bilbo clinging to her ankles before they got a proper ride.”

Éomer now looked amused. “It seems you reference a story told many times over,” he said. “Yet is new to us. Will you tell it?”

“It is not best told from the back of a horse—no matter how noble the beast,” Gimli said, and Legolas suppressed a fond smile at his friend’s eternal diplomacy. “But I suppose I can make a start of it, since there is naught else to speak of on this dreary road.”

“Yes, you may as well,” said Legolas. “And I’ll thank you to be kind to the Wood Elves in your telling, if you can!”

“Hm, I’ll do my best,” said Gimli. Legolas couldn’t see if he was hiding a laugh in his eyes, but it was creeping into his voice.

“And just remember that I was there,” said Gandalf ominously.

“For most of it,” Gimli said, not missing a beat. “I remember hearing about you disappearing—mysteriously—several times over.”

“We need Frodo to tell it properly—or Bilbo,” said Aragorn, speaking names that were on Legolas’s mind also.

There was a loaded pause—but Gimli broke it elegantly. “Well, I am a poor substitute for our noble hobbits, but I shall do my best, if my audience can refrain from interrupting me.”

Aragorn and Gandalf both made “go on” gestures, laughing, and Gimli cleared his throat.

When he began, his voice was low, in a cadence Legolas had never heard before. He wondered if this was the storytelling style of Dwarves. “It begins long ago, over the mountains and far away, in a place that the Elves call Erebor, and Men call The Lonely Mountain, but to Durin’s folk it is home. Deep the Dwarves delved there…”

Legolas let Gimli’s voice wash over him, and though he still wished to see his face, his words painted pictures in the air that dazzled his eyes; the more he listened, the more vivid they became, and though he’d heard the tale before, he was swept away by it. He remembered once again that Gimli had poetry deep in his heart, and he found that he heard it again here, in the form of a story. The voice and the words warmed him all the way through. It almost didn’t matter that they had an audience, for he would not be able to hear this without them.

He left his other thoughts, as he was told that mortals often did, for another day.

“This is become a dreary place,” said Éomer. “What sickness has befallen the river? Many fair things Saruman has destroyed: has he devoured the springs of Isen too?”

“So it would seem,” said Gandalf.

“Alas!” said Théoden. “Must we pass this way, where the carrion-beasts devour so many good Riders of the Mark?”

“This is our way,” said Gandalf. “Grievous is the fall of your men; but you shall see that at least the wolves of the mountains do not devour them. It is with their friends, the Orcs, that they hold their feast: such indeed is the friendship of their kind. Come!”

...

The company said farewell to the island and the mound, and passed over the river, and climbed the further bank. Then they rode on, glad to have left the mournful Fords. As they went the howling of the wolves broke out anew.

Gimli almost regretted telling his tale, when he saw the desolation at the Isen, beheld the mounds where men were buried, and heard the howling of the wolves. The wolves of Isengard, and other evils, were on now on everyone’s mind; and it was at no time pleasant to see or be reminded of the feast of carrion.

But Legolas, who seemed to sense so many of his moods, even when he could not see his face, gripped his shoulder tightly.

“You did well,” he said softly. “War marches on everywhere—these Riders know it. You helped them remember that there are other great deeds and stories in Middle-Earth, and took their minds away from this.”

Gimli let out a long sigh. He was now thinking of his family, and the hobbits, and the Men of Dale—and people he had not yet met, but who still lived and breathed under the sun.

“War marches everywhere,” he said. “Where else does it march, Legolas? Where that we cannot see?”

Where were Merry and Pippin? Where were Frodo and Sam?

Legolas did not answer.

But his hand did not move from Gimli’s shoulder until the company began to ride again.

They rode now more swiftly, and by midnight the Fords were nearly five leagues behind. Then they halted, ending their night’s journey, for the King was weary. They were come to the feet of the Misty Mountains, and the long arms of Nan Curunír stretched down to meet them. Dark lay the vale before them, for the moon had passed into the West, and its light was hidden by the hills. But out of the deep shadow of the dale rose a vast spire of smoke and vapour; as it mounted, it caught the rays of the sinking moon, and spread in shimmering billows, black and silver, over the starry sky.

“What do you think of that, Gandalf?” asked Aragorn. “One would say that all the Wizard’s Vale was burning.”

“There is ever a fume above that valley in these days,” said Éomer: “but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us. Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry.”

“Maybe he is,” said Gandalf. “Tomorrow we shall learn what he is doing. Now let us rest for a while, if we can.”

They camped beside the bed of the Isen river; it was still silent and empty. Some of them slept a little.

Gimli waited for Legolas to say something about the desolation around them as they made camp, but he did not; only looked around sadly, and in silence assisted with their setup for the night.

Gimli stayed close, hoping to bring comfort if he could, for by now silence from Legolas worried him far more than endless words. But soon he realized that his friend was not entirely silent—he was singing softly, as he sometimes did when he worked, and when Gimli recognized the tune, he thought perhaps that Legolas was not yet ready for speech. A rare thing, but something Gimli understood.

The Rohirrim did know him so well, however, and Éomer soon looked at him in curiosity.

“What is it you sing?” he asked at last. “It is beautiful, but very sad, even more so than the way of most Elvish songs.”

Legolas started. “It is,” he said. “It is something I learned in Lothlórien.”

That made the other men who were listening wince and turn away, finding other tasks to be busy at or people to talk to, which Gimli did not think Legolas was sorry for.

Éomer, however, was clearly trying to be more polite. “Was it something your Lady taught you?” he said, looking at Giml.

“No,” said Gimli, because Legolas’s mind was far away, and he did not mind speaking of Galadriel. “She was away from us much, and did not teach us songs. Anything we learned was from her people, the Galadhrim.”

“And this song was theirs? Their songs are sad, then,” said Éomer.

“Not all of them,” said Gimli. “And this song was not only theirs.” He sighed, and looked at Legolas, whose eyes told him everything he needed to know about what he should say next. “Forgive us, Éomer—I know that is no answer. We have have had losses on our road, and this is a song of grief. I will say no more; I do not know what sadness is on Legolas’s mind tonight, only that sometimes for Elves it is easier to sing than speak when such a mood strikes.”

Understanding lit in Éomer’s eyes, and he bowed. “Then I am sorry—I will intrude no more.”

“There is no fault,” said Gimli, bowing back. But he was not sorry to see Éomer find other matters to attend to, nor upset to be left alone with Legolas that night.

The camp was too small to be truly out of earshot of anyone, but most of the others were doing their best to pay no attention to them. Aragorn was with Éomer and some of the other Rohirrim, and Gandalf was speaking with Théoden. When Gimli was sure no one was listening, he looked at Legolas, who was staring distantly over the plains, even though there was—as far as he could tell—nothing to see.

“You were not lamenting Gandalf,” he said quietly. “Those were Sam and Frodo’s verses. You are thinking of them.”

Legolas was quiet for a moment, and then: “Yes.”

Gimli said nothing. He must wait.

“More desolation than this awaits them,” Legolas said. “Whether they succeed or fail.”

Gimli waited still.

“And I think of Merry and Pippin also.” Legolas turned to look at him at last. “Where are they, Gimli?”

Now Gimli reached over to take his hand. Legolas grasped it tightly. There was darkness all around them, but Gimli would not have cared if anyone saw.

He would not say, “I do not know”, for of course Legolas knew that he did not. He would not say any useless words. But he held tightly to Legolas’s hand.

“I think Gandalf knows,” Gimli said at last. “I think they are all right.” It was the only other comfort he could offer.

Legolas let out a breath. “I want to see it for myself. Anything else is rumor and hope.” He paused. “I’m glad the Rohirrim killed the Orcs that took them. I’m glad they burned. I would have burned them myself if they had not.”

Gimli was not surprised at the venom in his voice. Well he knew his friend’s hatred for the creatures that wreaked havoc on the world, that tortured and killed and kidnapped and tore friends and families apart. “We made many of them pay, already,” he said.

“And there will be more, Legolas said, like a promise.

He squeezed Gimli’s hand, but did not let it go. Gimli was glad that it was so dark that no one could see how he was starting to go slowly and mildly insane at the touch—but he would not have given it up for all the gold in Middle-Earth.

Uncertainty and darkness were all around them, stretching in every direction, but Legolas’s touch, and the promise in it, anchored him to the ground, as nothing else ever had.

They dozed a little, and if it was very nearly in each other’s arms—it was a foggy, dark night, and no one saw, or would have given it a thought if they did, for it was also quite cold. But the night was interrupted by an even deeper darkness, crawling over the land, and strange groanings. Gimli met Legolas’s eyes, glittering in the night, but he said nothing of whatever he thought they might be, and in the morning all the bodies of the Orcs were gone.

They rode out again at dawn, into the fog, and Legolas’s body was warm behind Gimli’s, but uncertainty and fear was creeping back in with the rolling fog.

He, too, wondered about Merry and Pippin.

Thus they drew nearer and nearer to Isengard.

“Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!” he said. “We are the doorwardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc is my name; and my companion, who, alas! is overcome with weariness”—here he gave the other a dig with his foot—“is Peregrin, son of Paladin, of the House of Took. Far in the North is our home. The Lord Saruman is within; but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honourable guests.”

“Doubtless he would!” laughed Gandalf. “And was it Saruman that ordered you to guard his damaged doors, and watch for the arrival of guests, when your attention could be spared from plate and bottle?”

“No, good sir, the matter escaped him,” answered Merry gravely. “He has been much occupied. Our orders came from Treebeard, who has taken over the management of Isengard. He commanded me to welcome the Lord of Rohan with fitting words. I have done my best.”

“And what about your companions? What about Legolas and me?” cried Gimli, unable to contain himself longer. ‘You rascals, you woolly-footed and wool-pated truants! A fine hunt you have led us! Two hundred leagues, through fen and forest, battle and death, to rescue you! And here we find you feasting and idling—and smoking! Smoking! Where did you come by the weed, you villains? Hammer and tongs! I am so torn between rage and joy, that if I do not burst, it will be a marvel!”

“You speak for me, Gimli,” laughed Legolas. “Though I would sooner learn how they came by the wine.”

“One thing you have not found in your hunting, and that’s brighter wits,” said Pippin, opening an eye. "Here you find us sitting on a field of victory, amid the plunder of armies, and you wonder how we came by a few well-earned comforts!”

“Well-earned?” said Gimli. “I cannot believe that!”

The fog that had been following them disappeared in the space of a heartbeat; joy bloomed in Legolas’s heart as brightly and vibrantly as the first new leaves of spring, until it threatened to pour from him like the sunrise on those leaves. It was lighter than the joy he’d felt at Gandalf’s return, more golden sunshine than piercing white light, but perhaps because of that, it warmed him all the way through.

In front of him him, he could feel the same joy radiating from Gimli, for all his jests, and from Aragorn beside him, and from all their joy together he knew he was beaming. Gimli could tease as much as he liked—Merry and Pippin were alive, and whole, and healthy, and—

Legolas felt as though his smile could light up the depths of Moria.

Gandalf and the King’s company rode away, turning eastward to make the circuit of the ruined walls of Isengard. But Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas remained behind. Leaving Arod and Hasufel to stray in search of grass, they came and sat beside the hobbits.

…

“I have a sore head; and it is past mid-day. You truants might make amends by finding us some of the plunder that you spoke of. Food and drink would pay off some of my score against you.”

“Then you shall have it,” said Pippin. “Will you have it here, or in more comfort in what’s left of Saruman’s guard-house—over there under the arch? We had to picnic out here, so as to keep an eye on the road.”

…

The three were soon busy with their meal; and the two hobbits, unabashed, set to a second time. “We must keep our guests company,” they said.

“You are full of courtesy this morning,” laughed Legolas. “But maybe, if we had not arrived, you would already have been keeping one another company again.”

As the hobbits began merrily discussing food and making plans for a meal, Legolas’s joy grew. This was where hobbits should be: making even the darkest places welcome, offering to share food and drink with weary friends, and cheerfully trading jests and stories.

Pippin caught his eye as they went into the guard house, with a somewhat confused look, but Legolas could only smile back. He could have sung a song of reunion after long parting, but he did not yet have words.

Perhaps the others did not either, and that was why they joked with each other so lightly. Legolas did not mind—their merry laughter brought warmth back to his heart that had been missing, that even Gimli could not bring.

Merry at least saw right through him, for as they were bringing out food he looked at Legolas and laughed.

“Legolas at least is happy to see us, Gimli,” he said between talk of what to eat. “Although perhaps he thinks we will vanish if he does not keep an eye on us!”

“I cannot say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind,” Legolas said. “I spent enough time staring at the countryside looking for you, I should hate to lose sight of you and have to do it again!” If it was a bit stilted, hopefully only Gimli would notice.

“I hope you won’t,” said Pippin emphatically. He poured drinks, and passed them around, and Legolas found himself looking at Gimli, who was looking back; perhaps they had the same thought.

Gimli cleared his throat first—and then did not speak, even though they all looked at him.

But Legolas thought he might know, so he spoke instead. “Among Elves, we have some ceremony when there is a reunion after a long time—for us it is a song. For Dwarves, does it involve drink?”

“There is the cup of parting, and the cup—and feast—of reunion,” Gimli admitted, sounding grateful. “But I cannot say the words we would say.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Pippin, cheerful and seemingly unaware, as ever, of the pounding of Legolas’s heart, or how he was drinking up Gimli’s gaze. “Well, since we do not all know the words to the song and Gimli can’t teach us the words to his blessing, let us do it hobbit-style, instead.”

“Hobbit-style?” said Gimli, tearing his gaze from Legolas, to his disappointment, but Aragorn was smiling.

“Oh, yes,” said Merry, holding out his glass. Pippin touched his to Merry’s, and gestured for them to do the same, although Aragorn did not need to be prompted.

“Cheers to the Fellowship, reunited!” said Pippin.

“Cheers!” said Aragorn, Merry—and Gimli, who seemed to have caught on.

“Cheers,” said Legolas belatedly, and copying them, drunk deep. He was smiling again when he set his glass down. It was a happy word; lively and bright, like the hobbits themselves, and the new custom warmed him down to his bones.

“That is the custom among many men as well,” said Aragorn. “Though they have more formal ones in Gondor.”

“Well, it serves,” said Merry, with a grin to show he wasn’t offended.

“You may teach us a more formal tradition in a more formal place,” said Pippin, laughing, and no one argued as they set into a well-earned meal.

[Pippin] held up a small pipe with a wide flattened bowl, and handed it to Gimli. “Does that settle the score between us?” he said.

“Settle it!” cried Gimli. “Most noble hobbit, it leaves me deep in your debt.”

“Well, I am going back into the open air, to see what the wind and sky are doing!” said Legolas.

“We will come with you,” said Aragorn.

They went out and seated themselves upon the piled stones before the gateway. They could see far down into the valley now; the mists were lifting and floating away upon the breeze.

“Now let us take our ease here for a little!” said Aragorn. “We will sit on the edge of ruin and talk, as Gandalf says, while he is busy elsewhere. I feel a weariness such as I have seldom felt before.” He wrapped his grey cloak about him, hiding his mail-shirt, and stretched out his long legs. Then he lay back and sent from his lips a thin stream of smoke.

“Look!” said Pippin.”Strider the Ranger has come back!”

“He has never been away,” said Aragorn. “I am Strider and Dúna-dan too, and I belong both to Gondor and the North.”

Gimli’s heart lifted each time he laughed, and with Merry and Pippin returned, that was often. Soon his heart was lighter than it had been in days, so that almost he forgot the heaviness of his feet when he had been running, chasing after them against hope in a cloud of grief that had now turned to joy.

He joked with the hobbits in his own way, for he did not have the words to say what he felt at seeing their faces again—but he did not need them, for both Merry and Pippin responded in kind, seeming to expect nothing else. But then, there was a reason hobbits and Dwarves had always got along so well.

Silence settled around them for a time, until he looked and saw Legolas’s eyes on him, looking fond and thoughtful, an expression that had become familiar yet still made Gimli’s heart ache in a way he wasn’t yet used to.

He raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation, that Legolas took at once. “You speak in jest, but I have known Dwarves to carefully count and measure debts and what is owed, and not only over payment,” he said.

“Only when not among friends,” Gimli answered easily. “When we are doing business, or are strangers in strange and hostile lands—as we have so often been—the careful counting of what has been given and what is owed, is done to protect ourselves. Wanderers and skilled craftsmen as we are, it is too easy for people to take advantage of us, or claim that we have done wrong to them. And so our ledgers are carefully balanced, in business and in life.”

“And this is mistaken for stinginess,” Legolas murmured.

Gimli shrugged. “We are misers no matter what we do; it is always so, for those who handle gold. And so we are careful to always be fair. Let tongues wag as they will; at least what they say will be lies, and those who deal with us will always find us to be true.”

Legolas nodded. “So it is,” he said. “And if a Dwarf is your friend, he is generous indeed.”

Gimli saw Merry and Pippin exchange an astonished look at this exchange; it had been long since he had given up the pretense of wishing to keep anything from Legolas, but perhaps the last time they had all been together it had been harder for him to speak of some things. He smiled. “It ruins my jest to tell you this, you understand,” he told Legolas, to give the hobbits something to laugh about instead of gaping.

Legolas only smiled at him, eyes dancing. “Yes, it was so humorous that I have indeed done it great damage,” he said, making the hobbits snort with laughter around their pipes.

Gimli pretended to scowl. “Will the injuries of Elves against Dwarves never end?” he said, rhetorically.

“Perhaps when we cease to be subjected to your jokes,” Legolas said, so seriously that he would have fooled Gimli had he not now become almost entirely transparent to him.

“Shall we have a demonstration of Elvish wit, then, if it superior?” Gimli became aware, at this point, that Merry, Pippin, and even Aragorn, were watching them intently, as though this was the best entertainment they’d ever gotten.

“I fear it may be an unfair contest, as it will not be appreciated by such an audience,” Legolas said, in a voice pitched perfectly to make Gimli want to punch him, or laugh—it tried his patience, anyway.

“So you cannot adapt, and call that a virtue? Elves!” Gimli grumbled. “Would it not be better to be able to make more people than only your peers laugh?”

Legolas looked at him gravely. “A fair point,” he said. “But I think you’ll find I have mastered it.”

“Oh?”

Now Legolas smiled. Gimli fought not to gasp; his eyes were dancing, Gimli’s favorite expression, and suddenly Gimli could see nothing else. He had never pretended not to love gold, but now he thought that the flecks of it in Legolas’s eyes were the most beautiful of all, especially caught in the light like this, and in his laughter. “Well, you are laughing right now.”

Damn him; he was right. Gimli could not help but smile back. “Well, so are you,” he told him, and they laughed together, in truth releasing secret laughter that had been there all along.

Dimly, he was aware of Merry leaning over to Aragorn and saying, in a hushed voice that he almost didn’t hear—

“How long have they—”

“The entire time,” Aragorn said, before Merry could finish.

“And they’re not—” said Pippin.

“No,” said Aragorn, not letting him finish his sentence either.

“Really?” said Merry. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Aragorn.

The hobbits leaned away from Aragorn, looking puzzled, and resumed smoking, before Gimli could ask what that was about. A thoughtful silence fell, and remained until at last Legolas asked Merry and Pippin to tell the story of what had happened to them.

The Old Ent looked at them long and searchingly, and spoke to them in turn. Last he turned to Legolas. “So you have come all the way from Mirkwood, my good Elf? A very great forest it used to be!”

“And still is,” said Legolas. “But not so great that we who dwell there ever tire of seeing new trees. I should dearly love to journey in Fangorn’s Wood. I scarcely passed beyond the eaves of it, and I did not wish to turn back.”

Treebeard’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “I hope you may have your wish, ere the hills be much older,” he said.

“I will come, if I have the fortune,” said Legolas. “I have made a bargain with my friend that, if all goes well, we will visit Fangorn together —by your leave.”

“Any Elf that comes with you will be welcome,” said Treebeard.

“The friend I speak of is not an Elf,” said Legolas; “I mean Gimli, Glóin’s son here.” Gimli bowed low, and the axe slipped from his belt and clattered on the ground.

“Hoom, hm! Ah now,” said Treebeard, looking dark-eyed at him. “A dwarf and an axe-bearer! Hoom! I have good will to Elves; but you ask much. This is a strange friendship!”

“Strange it may seem,” said Legolas; “but while Gimli lives I shall not come to Fangorn alone. His axe is not for trees, but for orc-necks, O Fangorn, Master of Fangorn’s Wood. Forty-two he hewed in the battle.”

“Hoo! Come now!” said Treebeard. “That is a better story! Well, well, things will go as they will; and there is no need to hurry to meet them.”

Legolas did not think much of the meeting with Saruman. A great evil had been undone; his heart was heavy at what a once a great power, had become; Mithrandir had the matter in hand, and it was well that Théoden the King of Rohan did not again fall for Saruman’s poisonous words; and when it was over, Legolas was happy to ride away in relief.

Much more memorable to him was meeting Treebeard, whose eyes were as fathomless and indescribable as Pippin had said. Even more he regretted not lingering under the eaves of Fangorn! What voices the trees under the direction of such a shepherd would have!

Yet even for such trees, for the company of all Ents in Middle-Earth, he would not abandon Gimli or leave him behind. Where you go, I will go. Well, the words were Gimli’s, but had not Legolas also said, You have my promise? As long as he drew breath, he would not break such a vow! Let all the races of the world stand against them as they like!

As they turned away from Isengard, Legolas felt Gimli’s eyes on him. Yet Gimli only smiled when he looked his way.

“At least you didn’t threaten to shoot anyone this time,” was all Gimli said.

A strange choking noise came from one of their companions; Legolas thought it was Gandalf, but when he looked, the wizard’s face was impassive.

“Who did you threaten to shoot?” said Merry, in a strange tone that Legolas couldn’t quite place.

“Éomer,” said Legolas. “He threatened to cut Gimli’s head off.”

“Éomer is not prone to rashness,” said Gandalf sternly. “Even in these times, even against a stranger.”

“He insulted the Lady Galadriel,” Gimli said. He exchanged a glance with Legolas, who wordlessly agreed that there was no more to be said on the matter. Everything had been explained, no matter how the hobbits still gaped.

The hobbits and Gandalf, for some reason, looked at Aragorn. “And you—” said Merry.

“No one got hurt,” Aragorn said firmly.

“Yet,” Gimli grumbled. “He’s a nice enough man, but I’ll still knock out his kneecaps if he speaks another word against her, or any other Elf. These Men don’t know what they are talking about, and if I have to be the one to teach them, I will.”

“And Legolas will do the same to anyone who speaks a word against Dwarves,” Pippin said—he probably meant to say it quietly, but Legolas’s ears were sharp. He only hoped, once again, that no one could tell that they were burning, or how flushed his face was at Gimli’s words.

Aragorn only sighed heavily. Gandalf looked amused. Legolas did not know what exactly they were implying, but he did know that he wished to be riding away from Isengard, as soon as possible. He looked at Gimli, and saw the same desire written there—apparently even if it meant mounting a horse. He walked a little faster, and Gimli matched his pace, hoping to get out of earshot of whatever was happening behind them.

He did, however, hear Gandalf say, apparently to Aragorn: “They’re giving you very good practice, anyway.”

But Legolas did not want to examine this too closely either, so he didn’t.

He could not help a short glance at Gandalf, who only nodded at him. “I am glad you met Treebeard at last,” he said. “It is too long since Elves and Ents walked together in the woods; too long since each retreated to their own lands in solitude.”

Legolas nodded. Gimli was warm beside him, and…well, he could not help but agree.

“The Ents did it out of grief,” said Merry. “Well, not at first, but eventually. They lost so much—they did not want to lose more.”

“And Elves and Men retreated out of fear,” said Gandalf. “Yet grief and fear are tools of the Enemy. You have experienced them yourself, Meriadoc, yet here you are. What would you have not seen, what people would you have not met, if you had let them keep you in your own lands?”

Merry and Pippin both looked thoughtful, but when Legolas looked at Gimli, he looked almost—grim. “I would trade anything for what I have gained,” Gimli said. He looked at Legolas, but he also looked out at the dismal landscape, and Legolas knew at once that he thought of the Glittering Caves and the people he had met in them.

Sudden understanding bloomed in Legolas’s mind. “Mithrandir,” he said. The whole company looked at him. “This has been your work,” he said. “Your doing.”

“Yes,” said Gandalf, after a pause. “Yes, Legolas, you see far. It is my task to defeat Sauron, and to do so I must unite the Free People of Middle-Earth. He has tried to fracture them; look what he almost did to Rohan, what we got here in the nick of time to undo. But I must try to repair the breaks, and bring all who oppose the Enemy together. He cannot be defeated otherwise.”

“You will also leave a better world behind, when he is gone,” said Aragorn.

There was another long pause, before Gandalf said only, “Yes. That is my hope. If we can get that far.”

And he had started with the Fellowship, with nine people from all the free races of Middle-Earth who were willing to walk out against the Enemy. Even if they were not even, at that time, friends with each other at all.

Had Gandalf known they would become so, in the end? Legolas did not know, and did not dare to ask. Gandalf seemed to be thinking of many things and people at once, and he guessed that the wizard put his trust in people, not knowing the end but hoping that they would find the best in each other.

And they had. Legolas knew, with clear certainty, that he could not have come this far without Gimli.

Their group fell silent as they mounted their horses and rode out away from Isengard, but Legolas did not notice. He was deep in thought.

Where their paths would take them next, he did not know. Not to the Glittering Caves or to Fangorn. But he, too, found that he had gained more than he ever thought possible.

Still uncertainty loomed before him in a way that he had never experienced, in a way that was still so new to him, even though the mortals around him carried it on their shoulders with ease. He did not envy them, but he wondered how they bore it, this unending doubt.

It only seemed to vanish when he met Gimli’s eyes, and with a wave of longing almost painful, Legolas wished, suddenly, not to be in Fangorn or Mirkwood or anywhere in the world at all, except alone with Gimli. There were too many searching eyes and meaningful looks around them, and so many things still left unsaid that he wished—

He could not think of it, not like this with Gimli in front of him on a horse as he was. But he deeply, deeply wished they were alone.

Legolas tried to think about the Ents instead, but even that thought brought him back to Gimli in the end. But for the wisdom of Gandalf, he had nearly run off into a thicket of Huorns and never met Treebeard at all.

He thought now, as he did then: they must journey together. They must. Legolas could not go riding off after strange eyes and voices. He must not forget Gimli, no matter what. He must remember why he had gained so much, and it was not because he had traveled alone.

At last, after a few miles, thinking these thoughts, he managed to murmur: “I am sorry, if I scared you.”

Gimli stirred, as if in surprise. “For what? You have done me no wrong.” He was quiet, too, for speech among the company had quieted into near silence.

It was kind of him, to pretend this was so, but— “I should not have tried to race off into that strange forest,” Legolas said. “Especially with you still on the horse, and Gandalf telling me not to, and it was foolish—I should have waited, and I—”

Gimli moved his hand, from where he was trying (and likely failing) not to grip Arod’s mane too tightly, and rested it on Legolas’s knee, briefly and effectively ending all thoughts in Legolas’s mind for the next few moments of the future that he could foresee.

“Legolas,” he said quietly.

“Yes?” Legolas breathed.

“Do not be sorry,” Gimli said, and moved his hand again. Legolas remembered to breathe in again.

“No?” said Legolas, when Gimli did not say more.

“No,” said Gimli, now so low it was almost a whisper. “I did not wish to go. But I would have. If you decided to in a sane mind, and if you were with me.”

He did not speak again. Legolas was glad Gimli could not see his face.

The sun was sinking behind the long western arm of the mountains when Gandalf and his companions, and the king with his Riders, set out again from Isengard. Gandalf took Merry behind him, and Aragorn took Pippin. Two of the king’s men went on ahead, riding swiftly, and passed soon out of sight down into the valley. The others followed at an easy pace.

Everyone seemed preoccupied on the ride back, and Gimli could not in truth say this did not apply to him as well.

He supposed Gandalf thought of his confrontation with Saruman, as did the Rohirrim; perhaps they, the hobbits, and Aragorn wondered what was going to happen next. He wondered that, too. Legolas, once he relieved himself of the burden of his absurd guilt, probably dwelt on his meeting with Treebeard, and longed to return to Fangorn and wander among the trees.

Gimli, mostly, was thinking of Legolas’s laughing eyes.

A burden had been lifted from both their shoulders, one he had not realized was so heavy until it was gone. He’d tried to trust Gandalf that Merry and Pippin were taken care of, but setting eyes upon them, healthy and well, had freed up his mind from a gnawing, aching fear that he’d only been ignoring; it had not settled or gone away.

If they had been underground—if he had been among Dwarves—he would have held them and wept.

But he was not, and no hobbit would respond well to such a display, so he had acted after the manner of their kind, which suited the above-ground face of Dwarves in any case, and all was well.

And now his mind was free in a way that it had not been. And so was Legolas’s. And there was laughter in both of their minds that had not been there, even as the days grew more uncertain and dark.

At present, the darkness only made him wish to cling tighter, to laugh louder, and to do so in private, where they did not have to hide the words they wanted to say.

There was no conversation on this ride, no stories of green jewels or brave hobbits to distract Gimli or ease the tension. The company remained lost in their own thoughts.

It would be much, much later before those thoughts, or at least the thoughts of one among their number, were truly revealed.

At last they halted. Then they turned aside, leaving the highway and taking to the sweet upland turf again. Going westward a mile or so they came to a dale. It opened southward, leaning back into the slope of round Dol Baran, the last hill of the northern ranges, greenfooted, crowned with heather. The sides of the glen were shaggy with last year’s bracken, among which the tight-curled fronds of spring were just thrusting through the sweet-scented earth. Thornbushes grew thick upon the low banks, and under them they made their camp, two hours or so before the middle of the night. They lit a fire in a hollow, down among the roots of a spreading hawthorn, tall as a tree, writhen with age, but hale in every limb. Buds were swelling at each twig’s tip.

Guards were set, two at a watch. The rest, after they had supped, wrapped themselves in a cloak and blanket and slept.

Legolas did not sleep.

He was weary, and with Gimli next to him, it should have been easy to drift off into the waking dreams of Elves.

But he did not. For the first time, Gimli was far, far too near for his thoughts to settle as they should. He was warm, and he was—right there—but so far, and—

All at once, Legolas stood up. He did it quietly, so that not even one of his own people would have heard him, and stole away even more silently on soft feet.

When he’d wanted comfort in years past, he would have first gone to nestle himself in the roots of the tree where they’d made camp, to stare up at the branches in the dark and sing softly to the stars that he could see between its budding twigs. That would have set his mind at ease.

Legolas did not want to set his mind at ease. He wanted to be under a wide open sky, laid bare to the stars as he could not be to—

To Gimli.

He wanted to be under the sky.

He went around to the other side of the tree at least, down low, where he could not easily be seen, and where there were was enough cover to hide, but no thornbushes to tear at him. Only there, when he was sure he was alone, did he take a deep, shuddering breath.

He could not see the moon from here; good. She was too honest, too bright, for him tonight. The stars were kinder.

Legolas did not know what was happening to him—but no. That was a lie. He did know—and he did not know what to do.

At last [Pippin] could stand it no longer. He got up and looked round. It was chilly, and he wrapped his cloak about him. The moon was shining cold and white, down into the dell, and the shadows of the bushes were black. All about lay sleeping shapes. The two guards were not in view: they were up on the hill, perhaps, or hidden in the bracken. Driven by some impulse that he did not understand, Pippin walked softly to where Gandalf lay. He looked down at him. The wizard seemed asleep, but with lids not fully closed: there was a glitter of eyes under his long lashes.

Gimli did not sleep. He feigned it, but when Legolas stood, he knew at once. He hesitated, for perhaps his friend needed time alone, which none of them could often get.

But with no reason to pretend to sleep, he was left lying on his back, staring at the stars, and worrying—and wondering.

The Anvil, he thought absentmindedly, looking at the stars, a background thought to the rest of his racing mind. Only now he also thought: the Border of the Sun. He traced his eyes to other Elvish constellations, thinking now of Legolas’s face in the starlight, turned up to the sky. The Sickle. He wondered if Elves had another name for the Warrior of the Sky, and what it was—and the thought brought Gimli to his feet, for all at once he could not be alone under these stars.

With stars on his mind, he did not need to wonder where Legolas had gone.

Gimli’s feet led him to an area where the sky opened up, and where Legolas stood, silent and unmoving. Gimli had half-expected him to be singing; would have been reassured if he was; but he was not, and the look on his face was troubling. He almost turned and left, thinking that he was right the first time in thinking Legolas wanted privacy—but Legolas took one look at his face and knew his mind.

“You could not sleep either,” he said.

“No,” said Gimli.

“You idiotic fool!” Pippin muttered to himself. “You’re going to get yourself into frightful trouble. Put it back quick!” But he found now that his knees quaked, and he did not dare to go near enough to the wizard to reach the bundle. “I’ll never get it back now without waking him,” he thought, “not till I’m a bit calmer. So I may as well have a look first. Not just here though!” He stole away, and sat down on a green hillock not far from his bed. The moon looked in over the edge of the dell.

Legolas searched Gimli’s face, but he could not see into his mind; always he wondered what Gimli thought, and ever in moods such as this it was a closed book to him. “I am sorry for leaving,” he said at last. “I know that did not help.”

Gimli shrugged, and sat down; Legolas took his cue and sat down next to him, but did not cease to search his face. “It is no matter,” Gimli said after a long pause. “I was not asleep long before you left.”

“Still—” Legolas began, but Gimli put a hand on his arm, and he startled into silence.

“I did not come here to disturb you,” said Gimli quietly. “I only did not want to be alone.” He made a sign with his hands in his secret language; Legolas realized with a jolt that he had not seen it in days. They had not been alone together in days.

“Oh,” said Legolas. His mind settled at once, and he realized suddenly how different things were since they first met. In obvious ways, but in quiet ones too; no longer did his mind spin in a panic every time they spoke, and when it did, Gimli knew what was happening, and did not become angry.

And his touch always, always helped. Legolas never felt safer than when Gimli’s hand found its way to him.

Yet Legolas did not think Gimli knew why his mind was spinning now, and his heart pounded in his ears at the thought.

“You knew where I would be,” Legolas said after a long, silent moment.

He fully expected Gimli to make a joke, something about Elves and stars. They would fall into easy banter, and make their way back to camp, and fall into restful sleep.

Instead, Gimli turned to him with a wry half-smile. “I was looking at the stars, too. I suppose you have worn off on me.”

It was a bit of a jest, but said so fondly and quietly that all Legolas could do was smile softly back. “And what did you see in them?” He said, just as quietly.

“I wanted to ask your opinion of them,” Gimli said. Had he moved in closer? Or had they always been so close their faces were nearly touching?

“What did you want to know?” Legolas murmured, afraid to break the spell.

Gimli’s eyes raised to meet his. For the first time Legolas noticed red eyelashes, catching the starlight. “In truth, I forgot.”

Legolas took a breath. If he only moved in a little closer—

Closer and closer [Pippin] bent, and then became rigid; his lips moved soundlessly for a while. Then with a strangled cry he fell back and lay still.

The cry was piercing. The guards leapt down from the banks. All the camp was soon astir.

A horrible scream split the peace of the night. Whatever had been about to happen, whatever Legolas had been about to do, he did not do it—he and Gimli both sprang back, looks of alarm on their faces.

“Who was that?” Legolas said.

“I don’t know,” said Gimli, but Legolas didn’t hear him, and it didn’t matter—they had both already stood up and broken into a dead run towards the camp.

The night ended in terror and confusion.They’d had a near miss—nearer than any of them thought, for all too soon the Nazgûl came, and they watched Gandalf and Pippin, who had been so recently been reunited with them, ride away into the darkness.

Neither of them forgot the dark night and the stars overhead, but it was long before they spoke of it again.