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Gimli was gone. He had been there, only a few minutes ago, within Legolas’ sight, though he could not reach him, then a giant blast and even the sight of him was lost. Legolas was tired, deep, deep into his bones. Haldir was dead, he had looked into those empty eyes, had closed them and said a prayer to guide him to Mandos. What a sad waste of an immortal life. And Legolas grieved for him, for all that he had been all those years ago, when Haldir was at his best, but this grief was nothing, a grain of sand next to the yawning cavern of emptiness that was the absence of Gimli.
He slashed at any Orc that strayed too close, giving the mortals a chance to flee, but his eyes were searching, searching, never still, where was the dwarf?
He realised then that he may never again hear the deep bass laugh nor hear the supposedly secret stories round the fire. Never again see the glint of firelight flare in the flame red hair and beard. The flash of white teeth bared in mirth and the strong, square hand which steadied him when he would falter.
Who was he, in the end, without that dwarf at his side?
Some sideshow for the mortals to gape at, misunderstood and alone. Was this his fate? To walk the path of immortality, facing loss after loss without cease? Rather die by the sword and be done with it? Surely he would prefer a trip to Mandos than he would traverse the world without his dwarf beside him?
His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light and it gave the foul servants of Morgoth pause, but he showed no mercy, his savagery nearly equal to theirs. For, after all, he had nothing to lose now, nothing left they could use to hurt him.
His blade caught in the chest plate of a particularly ugly orc and he found himself weapon-less against a foul reeking creature who would have happily had his head on a spike. But not today! The elf lunged, felt the sharp steel pierce his hand, but did not hesitate, felt the ropy throat come into his hands, felt the pulse of tainted blood, the steady thumping, then the pounding of fists against his vambraces. The black blood flowed over his hand, ran down his arms until the evil heart stopped and he released the foul beast. He had ripped its throat out. The mortals stared and he stared back at them.
He was a terrifying sight, in some ways far more frightening than the pathetic orcs, driven mad with fear of their master. Nay, here was a fierce elven warrior, tall and straight, his pale hair full red, streaked with blood and gore, pale skin covered in the same. He could not be more covered had he bathed in it deliberately! The green eyes glowed with his inner elven flame, stoked to roaring in his fury. Unstoppable, fearless, near mad with wrath!
But where was that accursed Dwarf? He had promised that they could travel together after the war, his deep dark eyes grown serious with his earnestness. How could he just disappear like that?
It seemed like all of a sudden Legolas was back in the keep, the mortals still stared, but he paid them no mind, Aragorn stood before him, reaching out to him, hesitant, fearful perhaps?
‘Where is Gimli?’ the voice was strangely harsh and foreign, not like his usual melodic tone.
‘I could not find him. He is gone.’ Aragorn admitted
Legolas’ heart was like a stone in his chest, too heavy to survive this blow surely.
He turned away, unmoved by any further conversation, he watched the door, and plotted against his enemy, for he would not die here, hidden in this room, like a craven, not for Legolas Thranduillian, such a death. No, he would die under the open sky, sword in hand, fighting for good, unto the end.
He blinked his eyes, then the humans had mustered themselves and he was seated on Arod’s broad back, but his own back was bare, bereft of his dwarf, who should be there, curled close beside him.
Then the deep, deep bellow of the horn made his hairs stand on end, who was blowing it? He did not know, but it strengthened his resolve.
They rode out as a party possessed, against immeasurable odds, but when all seemed lost, Mithrandir crested the hill and hope was restored. They beat the beasts back, the sun rose and the night was over, but there was no Gimli and therefore the night would never be over for Legolas. The sunshine did not warm him, the whispers of the trees fell on deaf ears, he was blind and deaf and dumb, no better than a corpse himself. Perhaps he could disappear into the dread forest, lay himself down on the deep dark earth and pray for death, pray for oblivion.
A warm, solid hand landed on his blood soaked sleeve and turned him, his empty eyes focused down, this was the moment then? For Gimli stood before him. Dear Gimli, who was surely perished, yet he looked so real. Legolas smiled at the apparition and lifted a hand to ghost through the dear face, but his hand landed on real living flesh.
He trembled and stared and the dwarf before him remained, solid as ever. There was a deep dent in his helm and a bit of blood on his brow but he LIVED!
A tear landed with a splash on the shining helm and the dwarf looked astonished as a deluge descended on him, the elf stood as if frozen before him, silver tears coursed down the blood stained cheeks as if they may never end. A strong, square hand lifted to wipe the tears away but they mixed with the blood and made a bigger mess. He dug around until, from a deep pocket, a handkerchief was produced and he carefully wiped the worst of the gore from the glorious elven face, still a staring, blank statue of what was once there.
Then the life seemed to flame within those wild green eyes and Gimli found himself lifted clean off his feet as the elf embraced him, so fiercely his ribs protested, yet he said not a word. He returned the embrace, for once not concerned with the foolish humans looking askance at them, for in the end, what did it matter what the men of Rohan may think? They two had survived, a new day dawned bright and there was hope still in this world. And they were together, most importantly, they were together.